There they lie, still and cat-like

in the afternoon sun,

your dresses, baggy,

dreamless, like an accident.

They smell of you, faintly,

almost resemble you.

They transmit your dirt,

your bad habits,

the trace of your elbows.

They are in no hurry, they don’t breathe,

are left over, limp, full of buttons,

peculiarities and spots.

Under the hands of a policeman,

a dressmaker, and archeologist,

they would reveal their seams,

their trivial secrets.

But where you are, whether you suffer,

what you always wanted to tell me

and never did,

whether you’ll return, whether

what happened happened out of love,

or out of need or forgetfulness,

and why all this came about

as it came about

when bare life was at stake,

whether you are dead or

just washing your hair,

that they don’t say.