Portraits — Jules Vaconi

On the shelves of his thought
and the racks of his memory
the gathered dust lay calmly
at rest in regular layers,
in elegant strata
by which you could count the years.

Beneath it, book covers —
a roof for the mice,
a refuge for the spider and
a home for memories.

And someone might wonder,
“How can so much time have passed
without leaving anything in him
but a few valleys around the eyelids?”

And the very thought of change,
born of an unwanted wind.
And the tight shutting of the windows —
an assured eternity —

a face glimpsed by a chance passer-by
through the window of the tavern,
backlit by the two lamps above the bar.