By the front door, in a pail held by a shredded, nylon rope
hangs my reflection.
Silver creases in somber waters,
I see you often walking uphill through the misty grass.
Each footstep bolder and faster,
harder as they cross the beaten ground.
Once in a trodden, dusty road, well fed sparrows waited for us.
Winter it was, caged in to our bones.
I see summer coming, thin, little sparrows up in the sky.
I found her photograph among other humans in an unforgiving city.
With her hair parted on one side, her left hand scratching the right side of her face.
Not a face you would remember, not a face you could easily forget.
She says, “The more times I fall in love, the less sure I am about love.”
The more times I fall in love, I lose faith in the word.
Among humans on the streets, on slow tramps, long subways and pier fronts,
bodies dancing to elated lights in between beer bottles in castaway bins.
Memories crowd my tired steps, I am lost again.
I promise my self I will find my way through the ‘eastward’ trucks,
they lead me these corporate lights, dim in to corners.
Last time, in eight weeks, the travel had begun ‘westward bound’.
I counted the hours this time.
In four hours, the clinks of chains washed out every fickle moment.
In two, you took a ticket ‘eastward bound’.
Tonight I can see the stars above the swings at Caine road.
Complacent to my deterrent desires,
stifled but alive in my passing toes.
We swing by, to and fro.
There are enough cares to stop me,
passing boots and crying shots.
Rooms of sighs, frozen touches in seething sadness going a downhill road.
But if I have found you even in my buried calmness,
these chains can not be faulty.
Across my 12th floor window she walks across the room in her ‘boyfriend shirt,’ back and forth.
Above the toy cars, he dries his clothes and irons, often without a shirt.
She cooks for hours, without looking once at me.
And their laundry box is set on the window, baby clothes patched in hangers.
You call me through the metro line, far away, a wind in your voice.
‘I loved the poem,’ you say.
Flowers by Wendy Coop.
Tonight I cannot see the port line,
see in case if I have flung my dispossessed calmness into the sea
and the tide is stronger and the wind hits harder.
Feel for example that the gravel near my knees crush into my skin.
I cannot see that there are ships passing by, hands waving around, sounds calling about,
To think that all I want to do is shut my eyes and whimper, to know that you are happy.
Not stare away under these mellow lamp posts or look for stars in the sky.
What does it matter that you cannot say anything,
I am here, but you are not with me.
I can tell you my saddest stories but you are another’s.
The same long nights, I was enchanted by them.
Borders of lights in boxes, passing boxes of neon.
But my failing verses disenchant me.
And those nights of innocence are buried dead.
Will I ever find them again?
(Ode to Neruda/ Tonight I can write)