Roseena Veronika Hussain

It is as if I could dip my hand down

into time and scoop up
blue and green lozenges of April heat 
a year ago in another country.

I can feel that other day running underneath this one
like an old videotape – here we go fast around the last corner
up the hill to his house, shadows

of limes and roses blowing in the car window
and music spraying from the radio and him
singing and touching my left hand to his lips.

– Anne Carson, extract from The Glass Essay