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.