Notches

Sickly, dusty little, street trees in the night, lit by

the slanting lights of the low, neighbourhood windows,

poor light patched on the elbows; everything is patched up:

the walls, ceilings, and tubs; the poem is also patched with

the rags of dead people’s shirts. A bicycle passed next

to the lamppost. Behind the glass door, the spiteful,

old woman appeared; she held an insect pump, there,

in the middle of the room, motionless, blind, with no target.

The arm can’t move not knowing its continuance.

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