And to have all these words as they
think
Nothing of grief asking only for
calm or lust
Useless in this village of impotent
swagger
This town washed by the smooth waves
Of a filthy river this burg that
fears night’s dark
Breath here where I am nothing more
than
A faint noise rustling deep in a
mirror-well
Into which you might look from a
distant
Window in a city of quartz where
yellow cats
Follow one another down otherwise
empty
Sidewalks where from eucalyptus
trees birds
Are charmed by your voice where
there is
Fine-weather rain that brings joy and
where
I could find what I write in what I
love
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