The stink of the wet vegetation
anointing the air
is causing a stir.
A diesel pulls into the station.
Some sparrows live under the eaves,
quick tokens of our lives.
It's true we don't know
our neighbours. They go
in and out with inhuman moves
The cranes are arranging the city
and I think that there's nothing so pretty
as tumbledown houses
deprived of their trousers
surviving the death of the city.
A wheelbarrow propped on its end
gives the garden spirits a tent.
The rain's steady drum
's a metallic boom,
a tin roof, a taciturn friend.