Nightly I Hear Your Voice
How does it come, after so many bitter fights,
that I begin to love you with a heart of clouds?
I cannot touch it.
Nightly, I hear the flakes of sound from the sky,
like a sleepless cat and a rat creaking to each other,
at the opposite sides of a back alley. This is their permanent address.
Here, broth from curbside dumpsters winds toward the centre
Like roads to Rome, and disappears.
There is whitish grease on the manhole cover.
Who is out there? Who has always been there,
hunchbacked, from dusk to dawn, till
the last star dissolves?
Feb. 3, 2008; June 8, 2008