|
Footfalls on stone, steps
Ever more precise
The last visible star
Recedes into loneliness
The material world coalesces for me in a telephone
And it is the sound of a telephone
That plucks me from a world of my own imagining
Distinctions between bodies blur
The night is peeled from its backing
Rolled
And carefully hidden
I have nothing to do today except wait for night come
And nothing to do once it arrives
I reenact last rights
Of countrymen and ancestors
Prayers are offered to wooden idols, processions
Cross the garden, small steps
Trace arcs on stone
I get up from my double bed in which I sleep alone
To greet the night
Wind spills in to fill the space I leave behind
|
