Sometimes after hours of wine I can almost see
the night gliding in low off the harbor
down the long avenues of shop windows
past mannequins, perfect in their gestures.
I leave some water steaming on the gas ring
and sometimes I can slip from my body,
almost find the single word to prevent evenings
that absolve nothing, a winter lived alone
and cold. Rooms where you somehow marry
the losses of strangers that tremble
on the walls like the hands
of the dancer next door, luminous
with Methedrine, she taps walls for hours
murmuring about the silver she swears
lines the building, the hallways
where each night drunks stammer their
usual rosary until they come to rest
beneath the tarnished numbers, the bulbs
that star each ceiling.
I must tell you I am afraid to sit here
losing myself to the hour's slow erasure
until I know myself only by this cold weight,
this hand on my lap, palm up.
I want to still the dancer's hands
in mine, to talk about forgiveness
and what we leave behind—faces
and cities, the small emergencies
of nights. I say nothing, but
leaning on the sill, I watch her leave
at that moment
when the first taxis start rolling
to the lights of Chinatown, powered
by sad and human desire. I watch her fade
down the street until she's a smudge,
violent in the circle of my breath. A figure
so small I could cup her in my hands.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem