Let these fall where they will: pages from our archive
of days, the loneliness inflicted by each star
flowering open on the cheek of impassive night—
In cities we have learned the places
where we can gather to share bread and broth,
where we can trade letters and tales
smuggled in the lining of suitcases.
Beneath the bridge, oil-speckled waters
swirl with unearthly light. The far-off whistle
from a barge comes back often in dreams.
Doors in train stations open and close
through the night— the sounds they make,
barely a vapor in the yellow of fluorescent lamps.


In response to Via Negativa: Light entertainment.

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