You talk about your desires
like someone who had never been in the war
like you were painting pictures of the bones of those abandoned barracks
in sand tones.

The city was hibernating,
the sky was unveiled and you
had nothing but your thoughts.
I knew you'd
weep at the sight of the streets
and that wintry drive
to be a grey flower
blossoming against lifelessness.

You were like a beggar
into whose bowl were tossed
only smaller bowls.
You kept thinking that the sound was wrong,
but if you had no tongue and no hands
you might let the day take you again,
rising with the land
set adrift on a leaf of warmth.