the morning might still be rescued if the weather
changes or the strong coffee breaks the glass between the sound
and the meaning of these sentences I recite, on an empty stomach,
from an out of date newspaper. I slept more than usual,
between papers and the distant sound of the telephone,
an alarm clock absorbed by dreams. as I woke up I
couldn’t read the leaves of yesterday’s tea, poured
into the kitchen sink, to find out what I’ll do
with the freedom left over from the day before.
as a child I was taught about the dangers
of waking up sleep walkers, a lesson I have
exemplarily followed in regard to my own self.
the balance between days and nights changes
progressively. through the open window,
I can hear the distant sounds of the
notting hill carnival, signalling the end
of summer. I burn the warts on my left hand, the blind
hand, which hasn’t been getting all the pleasure or
recognition it deserves. it’s raining.
and this is all, an unexamined description in the filtered
light of a day dying more slowly than the previous ones.
soon we’ll go out into the shopping streets, quays
where we’ll welcome ships
that already left, on saturday afternoons, to lose ourselves
between the noise and the excess of information that
labels the twenty-first century, while nobody
notices I went out not wearing desire.
the city ceased to be a map and, after a year, I can read the street names
as one who sets fire to the ships that reach the shore,
so that I won’t have a way of going back home.