Weight on my chest —

afternoons empty of light.

Sullen processions clog

this street of days.

Even my pen refuses

to write, this page

rejects ink. If you

went veiled at dawn

what chance the moon

might rise at night,

red as flamboyanas?

Come back from over

whatever nameless sea

you drift, and find

me naked as a window

without glass, open

to the slightest breeze.