1
Heavy clouds in a September sky
and the ground stretches to take them in,
the houses straighten up, a sycamore
heavy with night, opens its hands,
and the brackish stream, only now
dragging along like a prisoner,
murmurs to itself in the morning,
2
Then the quiet, and time is inside me
and dreams the dreams of the dead,
with respect for the life that runs aground.
3
So it was that the truth found its way by mistake
Into my house, erased the scribble,
and eased the pain for a good hour,
then made its residence on the heap of wreckage
that the night had left behind for me.
4
Only the cats refuse to be fooled.
They creep in and out as if the house
too lay in ruins.