Like most houses over centuries here
this one has been divided. What was its
courtyard is part of a private gallery.
A vine, planted in the yard – perhaps
in the island’s original earth before
alder pilings made the city’s foundations –
has thickened, grown on top of a wall,
almost hiding the broken bottles
embedded in cement, and then up
to our third floor balcony, covering
the pergola. The grapes are pearly small, sweet.
There is no dulling roar to baffle sounds.