That was my verdict, six weeks before the shades.

January had burst December open. I said let go, stockstill
and concocting questions. Reminding myself a man’s heart
can’t be bared with just one hand.

Scinded, our words repeat. I heard hold tight, let go,
standing like a man pitched forward. Weight on one leg.

Killing winter in our kitchens, staring at icy roads, I said
let go. Dialled his number. At his window in another city,
a man answered.

A voice rose up. Full, beleaguered, under a pale sun.

(Translated from the original French by Erín Moure)