Our footprints in the tiles
are imperceptable unless it rains, and until then
we seven are but ghosts lighting candles,
tracing the movement of banana tree roots
and the migration of birds. Our authority, our domain
is the rising and setting of the sun,
the goings on in between morning rush hour
and evening rush hour but nothing more.
The night belongs to those lovers
on the other side of the wall, and to the landlord,
always listening for evidence of his keep
spending their coins on clothing, on food, on old magic
that makes us fall out of the walls
and into his view.
The lovers are safe in their love. I know
exactly who you are - you are mine.
Nothing will change that is a sharp whisper
in ther aftermath of skin and sweat. It cuts the night
and spiderwebbs the inside of my brain
with wanting, desire for something I too
can keep for my own.
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