most nights i stand in the half-light seething or this is what i would like to say. instead i listen to people on the street, coughing. they know nobody else is around. they raise immaculate voices in anger. for who could forbid them? certainly not i, i, who, also unsleeping, rise, to touch the cold windowpane and gleam beneath the auspices of a streetlamp.
behind me, only the sounds of breathing and a sock which falls from the clothes-rack onto the floor.











