slow things heard in old songs sad songs sung by the sides of old inns dry roses clutched by a lover a wedding dress downriver you will ask them their names the women who remember will ask you in turn where you come from inside this small country you are writing a book it’s unfinished the evening enfolding you slowly a soreness in the fingers who are you they ask you will get in the car with the mirror with the silver flaking in the back the book will receive much criticism you knew it from the story the bride gone downriver where dusk pulls the sunset quarter after quarter so many have written they will ask you with roses will ask what to call you by the river where you come.