lights that shimmer in pain,
your anklets stab the silence
your face cracks down
in cinders of snow
as my smiles go up in mist
and we are floating again,
in a song-boat
on the fringes of this night
Angela,
these tunes are false
that snake in through your window
with the soot of the city
your hair streams down
like the raging skyline,
your sleeves are dripping with rain
your fingers scurry with joy
for a last shelter,
as I document your touch
in peace
Angela,
let’s burgle these clouded doors
that stand between us now
like night patrollers
and unhide the soft contours
of veiled delight
let reflections change forever
as we manufacture love
in this rain room
and when the night shrinks in sleep,
you shall search for a poet
who lives in songs
while I travel
through old diaries
for the ruins of your smiles
2. Last Station of love
Angela,
what was bothering you that day
when you took the night train
at the last junction?
light years in thought;
we lived a month on missed calls
and nothing else
whatever was left in the city
except the ghosts of a few poets
and nude strangers?
Angela,
we’re waiting
at the last station
of love
we’ve been waiting for years now
and colliding at times
in dream
when time breaths
in tiny splinters of sight
like another illusion
or the river curls up
at the solstice of vision
Angela,
we shall then meet across the waters
of this tiny blue opera glass
and try to read our past
in the fast headlight
of some passing vehicle
we shall glide on sounds
across the harbours of this city
we shall haunt
the windows of sleep
this December
as the moon
like a snowrose sickle,
hangs from her hinges
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