Translated by Geoff Hargreaves

    I spy on the building

    closest to hand

    a movement that begins

    out on its balconies

    as the day's routine，

    the early tasks of morning

    with their stock and styleless gestures，

    flowers again.

    I fall in love at this one hour

    when people most repeat themselves，

    least connected to their inner lives

    and packed with habits laid down long ago.

    There's a woman I observe who

    constantly appears in bathrobe，

    on floor eight， with coffee cup，

    matronly blonde， in love with life

    casting glances at her wider world while taking

    two quick sips or three，

    and then with an erotic shake

    loosens up the sugared lees， to reach

    the best of sips， the last， the sweetest. . .

    all before quite waking up.

    Before you quite wake up，

    blonde of the morning， hold fast

    to ritual tasting， self-communion.

    Off from your balcony，

    at last emerged from sleep，

    slip inside your home， by now yourself，

    make gestures of your own，

    not those somebody has bequeathed to you