Rooms travel with months;
darker ones to the east and the slower ones to the north.
Liquid times. Liquidated times. So, the move. One haunt to the other.
Here are the rains, withdrawing monsoons,
a difficult raconteur of sights and words , between them there is Magritte's problem.
What we live through. What we live within. How we create life out of it.
We had heavy heat this time. May, June, July.
Tired fences thinking about what they had skipped to let changes in.
A hill trip. Where ghosts floated real. An exorcism deadly enough to create soot.
On the ceilings of the world gone by. Loved, hated, forsaken, exiled.
To make love real within two truths and no lie.
So much about speeding, so much on voices, so more about fear.
So much more about keeping things to the safe.
Together.
There are new germs waiting to be raised below the October sky.
In a city I love, hate, forsake, seek exile from.
Before the bells that drown out my prayers with the fire.