This Broken-Waisted Waltz

Morning through the window, the inner courtyard: no shaft but throat, the space, the pearlflecked light now cotton, now cocooned. Tea. A candle. The same sweater worn for weeks. Radio. Black bread with cheese. The light that comes. The window. The silence.

The story in this city has always been the same: back & forth a wandering of streets, one side to the other, see: this shall be, have been, a story of certain silence. Of simple drift & days. Muteness. Tonalities of gray. Empty railways that break to blackout. Disappearing act empty, audience absent, of echoes always one: wait harder.

*
(this poem first appeared in SAND Journal Issue 14)

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: