About a garden, but slightly divagating. And also (don’t include this when you publish) do the words in the title count? And one last thing, can you help me by sending an email to an estate agency? It’s about a garden and a locked door. They won’t give me the key and they insist there is no garden. I have no one left to turn to.

I've hidden a garden in this story (let's call it a story). It might be that's in the shape of a poem - a tiny poem covered by an overgrowth of words. Or in the shape of whatever is left when you take the words away from a poem. The story is meant to be about this garden, that's how it insinuated itself into my brain over the night. Over a lifetime of nights. But there is the image of a bathroom that keeps interfering.

It's of course, the fault of the estate agency. Among the pictures that I found on their website there was none showing the garden. The picture of the bathroom was showing a sink (water running from the tap), an oval mirror and the corner of a window on the right side. But the window is a lie.

Oh, before I forget, the oval mirror reflects an open door. I find this strange because I never see it like that. I like to close the door to the bathroom every time I go in, even if I live alone. All I see is a closed door.

About a garden, but slightly divagating. And also (don’t include this when you publish) do the words in the title count? And one last thing, can you help me by sending an email to an estate agency? It’s about a garden and a locked door. They won’t give me the key and they insist there is no garden. I have no one left to turn to.

There is a door in a painting by a Flemish Master that doesn't open, though in other works the painter (the name rests on the tip of my tongue) takes full advantage of the virtuosity of spaces. I'm obsessed with the idea that the door in question leads to a garden. Perhaps even my garden. Or my kind of garden. But the bathroom door is useless.

I've always thought that a door can be best defined by a question. There is a question that ends Mozart's third violin concerto. And there is another question in Shostakovich's fugue (No.8, the number of my house) that keeps repeating itself until I can no longer bear it. I wish I could ask about my garden like that. I wish I could ask about it with a door.

The window is a lie, because it doesn't exist. It would have been the only window that opened towards the garden. I've stopped receiving replies to my emails.

When I was viewing the house, the agent unlocked the door
and briefly opened it. All I could see of the garden was the tired branch of an apple tree carrying fruits, like a lover that has waited long with a bouquet and his arms are hurting with the prolonged imminence of giving.

About a garden, but slightly divagating. And also (don’t include this when you publish) do the words in the title count? And one last thing, can you help me by sending an email to an estate agency? It’s about a garden and a locked door. They won’t give me the key and they insist there is no garden. I have no one left to turn to.

If you read further you'll find the space where the poem has been. I'm not good with poetry, so I've deleted it and left only the empty(?) space (which I'll include after the last word). If there's anything worth looking at, it must be there. Even for those of you who are not looking for a garden.

I'm looking for this garden because I'd like to fall. Just to know I've been there. There is no full stop - not this time