All over Genoa
you see them: windows with open shutters.
Then the illusion shatters.
But that’s not true. You knew
the shutters were merely painted on.
You knew it time and again.
The claim of the painted shutter
that it ever shuts the eye
of the window is an open lie.
You find its shadow-latches strike
the wall at a single angle,
the stuck hands of a clock.
Who needs to be correct
more often than twice a day?
Who needs real shadow more than play?
Inside the house, a supply
of endless laundry to wash.
On an outer wall it’s fresh
paint hung out to dry—
shirttails flapping on a frieze
unruffled by any breeze,
like the words pinned to this line.
And the foreign word is a lie:
that second l in l’oeil
which only looks like an l, and is silent.
Already have an account? Log in
Join KR for even more to read.