A finer-grained time lies thicker on the ground.
We take out the warm lining of overcoats,
replace one sleeve with a sleeve of a different colour.
Beyond the slower times the city dreams itself,
dreams of itself, its footprints, the nightwalk,
alarm all night becomes a kind of weather.
There was no walk, not for me, nothing to read,
sick without books, I wasted day,
the young, strong, demanding sun, the unwounded leaves.
Useless in the shadows of the sheds, I invented
a small abandoned notebook of doubts
concerning words, held it between my two heart fingers.
And the sight of the end of the platform
loosened a very long perfume that had ease
of gathering into my ceiling blue as an eyelid.