by Jonathan
Hartt
these streets have
open palms
to thrust at our windows
when the light is red
but this town sleeps off all hope
for the drowning
que
piden limosna
i am not one
but at least i see
them
al menos les miro
no?
in the sunken alleyway
bathed in shadow
el
viejo slumps against wet brick
grinning
his toothless
defiance
so that no one
can smell the fear
his hands como
cuero
are weathered and
shake
as he lifts a paper bag to his gums
to forget
and he gets the placebo
de placer
all over himself
ahora
mismo
the bedcovers are
pulled back
esperan for my return
to sleep’s underworld
esperan for me to
draw the curtains
on all city
lights
escuche they say
night has a depth we’ve seen it
fathoms beneath
the bright smile surface
of day