The ladies come two by two to the concerts,
movies, the hallways of museums,
innocent and gross.
Ages have passed,
and the casualties are among them,
between seats and benches.
The dead men, the old men,
the provocateurs denying age,
counted by silence, by empty spaces.
It is autumn in the aftermath of summer.
Twilight cooling the warm afternoon,
the shimmering heat of roads and streets.
It is a statement of more or less,
or nothing.
Affairs still vivid in the women’s eyes,
the putting away of musical toys,
the turning off of lights and going home,
two by two, or more,
unsure of the house, the door,
the rooms they enter in the dark.
And a question inside each of them,
is this all that’s left of dreams,
as the walls close in?