You give the appearance of listening
To my thoughts, o trees,
Bent over the road I am walking
On a late summer evening
When every one of you is a steep staircase
The night is descending.
The leaves like my my mother’s lips
Forever trembling, unable to decide,
Fore there’s a bit of wind,
And it’s like hearing voices,
Or a mouth full of muffled laughter,
A huge dark mouth we can all fit in
Suddenly covered by a hand.
Everything quiet. Light
Of some other evening strolling ahead,
Long-ago evening of long dresses,
Pointy shoes, silver cigarettes cases.
Happy heart, what heavy steps you take
As you hurry after them in the thickening
shadows.
The sky above still blue.
The nightbirds like children
Who won’t come to dinner.
Lost children singing to themselves.
