Issue 128, Fall 1993
Darkness washes over you . . .
Only the sofas are safe under the lamps’ umbrellas . . .
I feel the earth so fully, beaten beneath the floor, the asphalt,
and the forgotten voices of the dead . . .
Balconies and squares are all grown green.
If I stretched my arms out quietly, I’d become a living cross.
But a cry cracks the street . . .
rips up my peace and quiet.
And the papers are full of huge lament
(can’t, can’t be repeated) . . .
Wires scream like that . . .
Statues, walls and stations rush by .. .
Empty trolleys swim past the cities,
washed down by dawn and fog...