10 PM

To hear my own echo across two streets is a surprise

It has been a long time since I have been the master or mistress

of any reverberations

silent spaces I thought I had left behind in the jungles of America

before I said adieu, be good, to fructiferous trees: Mango, Banana, Frangipani

 

Mid-August

and I’ve the impression that only once a year does it smell of jasmine tobacco

yet across the street the pearlescent moonflower,

neon sign of Perla Clejean S. R. L. neighborhood washhouse,

is perpetually rising in flux like the cosmic sickle she is,

though Navy Day and the Dormition of the Mother of God might affect these hours

 

It’s true that I’m not such a conquistador here

but the little experience I have has already taught me

that my place is now among the specter lanterns,

delicate lullaby dragonfly eyes aglow,

refulgent by the shadow of gaslamp bulbs