lamps on at four

the peppery smell

wrong about Mussolini

no one could say

Irena was tired, her eyesight was poor

that was all anyone asked

dark mirrors

a short foreign door

two croissants

glassed-in

frayed rope on his shoulders

greasy and soft

like brown paper parcels tied with strings

victims, flotsam

scented sheers, deep pillows

not the journey, not the necklace

clean and polite

not the stamps

in an icicle brightness