Where beehive haystacks sweat under handkerchiefs
and tiled shrines cool the cobbles, we ride high
beside an enamelled canal.
Dashes of lace screen windows.
Everything is burned to miniature.
We don’t want anyone to illuminate our secrets
or where else would we be alone.
The cry of a baby, 'Het, Luce, het', from her basket,
strapped to a pannier,
sounds like a ceremony,
a cradle-rocking, not a suffering.