When the maids returned with the oil they’d bought

from some place that was officially closed, it was too late.

the door was locked, the bridegroom wouldn’t let them in.

He said he didn’t know them. And it was true: He didn’t.

It wasn’t just their falling asleep and forgetting about the oil.

They had officially changed. They were different persons,

excluded just for wanting to be part of the crisis.

Not having you desire the house

the days of these last weeks

has swept into disruptive cinema.

They came from all over to view, some stayed

in droves. Envy, of course.

My fingers never had to deal with this puzzle

before. It was like taking off too many rings.

In the thoroughly rinsed sky a zeppelin passed, smiling,

knowing it would all be on the evening news.