The speaker sets himself a small game: he drops a feather from a balcony and decides that his lover will keep praying, or resting, only as long as it stays in the air. The poem then follows the feather's slow fall while the room fills with heat, the sound of mopeds outside, and Albanian songs from a CD player. The songs speak of melting snow, flesh and bones, and a woman with "serpent eyes," so desire and ache seep into an otherwise lazy afternoon.
The speaker wants to hold time still: "still the feather," he says, because he wants to keep listening and keep her close. She is more practical. She complains about the heat and asks him to close the door. When the feather touches the ground, the game ends, the music softens, and she is asleep. The mood is drowsy, sensual and a little wistful, with a quiet sense that these moments of closeness can't be held for long.