Poetry

If you leaned over
the peeling window ledge,
one tower of Notre Dame

That hazy, faintly discernible glow,
already half erased,
lodged in the corners of the night 

You smiled, slumped in your chair.
I was reclining. We talked but
not much was said. It was the day

Once again the land was alone
with me. The hills were humped and low.

“As you can see the camps are overpopulated,
and the small parts in between, if somebody
vanishes, getting to them is like a reunion date

Over a tundra of red sand they arrive eager as stadium
fans, with laundry-like sacks and bags, separated into queues: