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Day as in backwards
as in wisps of rain and a two-room flat against the sea
I loved the long flights of stairs
and the high-sided streets and the well-worn shoes just inside
the door
I loved the love that walked in alone and took a table
near the window
Lay down your hollow sound my cuckoo
We are singing opera in the kitchen with the owner and the chef
A dozen trout are fished out back
Stars get strung
beneath us
as in one true sentence at a time
Like someone who finished a story
begun long ago
When it storms the rooftops and the cliffs
awaken
Pigeons walk the pavement
A taxi hisses by
Where the last
bare trees
open to the plaza
only you
can hear it
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Like someone clearing his throat before dawn.
When the cabby says “Are you crying?” because you really are crying, you say
“No.”
A boy comes in with a tray of glasses. His sister leaves the door ajar.
Like an orchid bruised the moment you touch it. You know why you’re doing it
and how.
Like someone shaving across the courtyard, and singing.
Or sidewalk tables cradled in light, if that’s what you’re asking.
Or the smell of palm trees, and of the empty courtyard. Or the first raindrops, and
then their spattering.
