Night opens the book,
reads it in silence.
The only sounds: truck’s roar by the station,
idling, child’s cry in her sleep in white Cape
across the street, and my own breath.

What do I have to say to you now,
alone, sitting in my car,
window down, no music, cigar cold?
I will leave for you this silent night,
torn maps, hand-lotion bottle, half-empty,
pocket Thesaurus.

Our language is spoken
only in the city, rarely visible:
bell tower, scarlet flower beds,
barbed-wire fence,
red brick school building,
tank on the pedestal
from the forgotten overseas war,
home with parents asleep,
together again,
as if nothing happened,
flag with hundred butterflies
on the desolate square.

I will leave the directions
and when you get there
you will understand the language,
mine and all those,
who passed through the city.
There are as many tongues spoken there
as transients.

I light up my smoke, start the car,
put on the Abbey Road,
and head for the city.