from Stories for a New Day
Some poets took to the streets,
invaded the parks and deceived
doves with verses.
They regrouped on city corners
in silence, melancholia
took over their hands, the profile
of their mouths. But you’d never confuse
them with the window display
of a bookstore. A store from which
the heart escapes as soon as it can.
They’d faint for a little light, for
the golden vein of granite, the marquee
on which doves took refuge tired
of so much ruse.
They stayed on the streets
until the new day became
a roller shutter.