some delicate dawn
of a Sunday or
Wednesday
should the sun
drop its eyes on
us
ambulating down a
narrow town
the talk
the cards are
stacked
against us
still it shines
and whispers
let the children
run in the streets
they are pink
and blue and orange
yellow—anyway—like
me
I might appear
more often
in your crowded
lives
and then the
mountains
take their place
inside our
dailiness again
with no glance
for the paperboys
and bellboys
of our
languorous desire
and the sky has
painted
all our faces
blue-gray
like a sea
withholding all its angels
up and
downward
looking
till the old abysses
freeze and fall away
and all their
hands are
bloody
in our houses
and their wings
unhinged
as if the day
had risen in
our
sleep and stole
away
with all its streets
and rivers
leaving colors intimate
behind
no voice can
quell its
majesty
our night thief
is a limpid
ghost
of pasts
and all the shudders
have been opened
for its silent
circulation
—like an atmosphere
it winds around
the hours
faithfully
as an abandoned
animal
its plunging
hand
in the
enormity
and all the
smiling
houses
blink their eyes