and then, there is, as always, amazing,

the light cupped under bridges

carrying streams of the dead whose dreams

we live. they hurry from one life to another

in both directions. 

houses, trees, streets

line the canal, scatter in the wake of barges

re-assemble in watery lines. 

that uncertain light

sustains us when what is spoken goes nowhere.

only the broken, now honoured with plaques

attached to old buildings, only the broken

plowed into barricades, into the ground, into ghettos slums barrios

deported into camps, only the broken 

silver the mirrors that ghost us, 

waver, and move on.