…and what of that no longer spoken?Will it wait at the crease of each cornerin a slouch hat, bedraggled raincoat,melt into walls, must thickening the air?
Or slip the sash on an unguarded window,sidle into alleys less well-litwhere a grey fox noses throughthe detritus of lives less lived?
Drawn by the clatter of aluminium bins,will it stare out over wet gardens,a rust of trees – what is that achethat comes with rain? – wait for the long dawn
and the cat to carry in the thrush?