I don’t know why she burned up all
those greylead drawings we saw in Castlemaine
the week my brother called about the car
I don’t know why she sold her clothes and broke her violin and bows
and scattered them around the living room when I arrived
I told them all that she could see
some things that I believe were never there
like old men making copies of the keys
I don’t know why her hairs go grey
at night in my arms she’d say
how long we’d been together since the days at Albert Yard