Trespassing

That summer we were strangers in the house

of strangers, their garden pristine, merciless,

as if no one ever strolled its serpentine walks.

A lone magpie quarreled on a branch.

Secrets mossed the paving stones.

The larch sprouted glossy fingers of leaf,

pruned by some disembodied gardener.

We felt like antique servants, servants

who had become masters. The lives

of these strangers were no worse than ours-

perhaps they were even a little better,

lives where just enough happiness had been earned

and just enough sadness spent,

where hardly anyone was ever murdered

and the mail mostly came on time.