Thursday Night

Thursday Night

Steps echo through

what appears to be a long

corridor. Wind blows, carrying

an old southern

wet odor. The woman outside

waits, under

the dimmed street light

her contour

assuming different

forms

as I approach

the last lines, I realize words

have become an invitation

to the knowledge

of love

and feathers keep falling

from desert trees, resting

their wit

in slopes of sand -

steep moving

sand

Now closer

she bends over

her own shadow, picking

something

from the ground – maybe

foliage leaf

maybe a letter -

at the center of the corridor

the sky is a huge

black vault

speckled in pure

white

and we

are so tiny.

© 2016, José Coelho