Man speaks your name like a burning anathema,
and picks up your body where
butterflies of newspapers circle above you.
The yellow sun is in your hair, the darkened color
of tamed waters.
The warm yellow sun—
The quiet yellow sun—
Your death rides a black van;
Your death, more real than life, comes at five o’clock,
in a wedding tuxedo.
The sad blue sky’s clear dust gropes its way down
toward the city,
The asphalt roads glimmer like ice.
Red lights dim, like eyes deprived of sleep,
trying to understand the great mystery of the morning.
An old man stands at an empty phone booth,
looking at his map
on which a thousand places are marked,
with no names.
His walking stick dangles on his arm,
a compass uncertain of the south, where
the sun throws a shadow.
a black cat,
jumps into an open window, the curtain tied back and knotted.
An army of houses stand vigil on the first day
of a lunar winter
I came out from the subway,
a sense of loss
to surround me.
People gathered around the exit,
did not give way.
I hardly knew them,
I did not understand
But some words, like birds
a horrifying storm,
came to me
with the sound
It was eight in the evening,
rodents began to crawl on the street;
Cameras perched on a branch
A police car
parked like a corpse
The building is closed;
The cafe we used to go to is closed;
7-11 is closed,
Nobody goes there anymore;
No bells will toll,
the chapel has been quiet for a century.
Only a woman with sand-colored hair walks by,
and wipes her eyes with a dirty handkerchief.
We are outside in the yard, trying to figure out
the scorching silence
in this big city.
On the walls that surround us,
red characters are minacious and ready to lash us away
– red characters crying destruction.
The nudity of a man rises out distinctively
from the steam of the sauna house,
like the mid-year moon dashing
from the encaging mist of the night
and falls into the crystal pond of my eyes.
The moon is warm.