November, 2018

The sad blue sky’s clear dusts grope their 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.

  

Soot-colored silence,

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 

A Winter Prelude

The red-brick wall shines like a giant lamp post 

when the grey sky drops down, almost touching the earth.

The parasol trees seem to bend and break under 

such a weight; listless leaves hang like flags 

that announce a final defeat.

 

The sun shuts off its droning engine and looks away 

from thick leaden clouds.

Along the boulevard men walk in packs, looking,

almost huddling together, 

for the warmth of a man-made fire.

 

Winter comes too early, rubbing its nose

on the windowpane where frost begins to gather, eating its way

through the aluminum frame.

The door is shut tight , inside the quiet room

a thin chrysanthemum half-blossoms.

 

It’s not the end of a life circle, this seasonly change,

nor is it the beginning for the less fortunate.

Another breath of the wind comes to all either way,

only colder,

bringing another form of transformation,

if not with a rose, with a dagger.

 

But the silence that hovers above this city is louder 

than the talks of many smart men, 

who see the great enigma of life in the cafe 

where black espressos are brewing.