No one trusts the city streets any longer, and the streets trust no one either. The buildings, too, tip their gutters to pour their algae onto mute life.

so much depends on how many

steps you are able to take

after crossing

imaginary lines

I exist outside of time.
You open the door, and beneath your bare feet
crunches glass, wind rushes
into your eyes. You open your hands,
and husks and ashes dance
in an unending chain.

They were at that point in their marriage when she no longer asked him to zip her up—certainly not the zipper to the dress she’d chosen in defiance of his suggestions. She hadn’t asked his opinion about the hat she’d decided to purchase either.

Ah, all those days that flowed
through my sorrows and anxieties!
In my country at this moment
another writer is experiencing them too.
Don't be afraid, my friend.