The sky is red tonight:
Not the cold, self-righteous red
Of rebellious Novembers;
But a hesitant red, a translucent red
Reminiscent of tired eyes
Like mine that have not slept, have swept
Over the familiar confines of my room,
Its floor coated with the debris of words,
In rain-red nights like this;
Have swept over trains whistling drowsily,
Like old songs that smell of places left behind,
Trying to retrace a path, raindrop by raindrop;
Searching for the still fainter scent of childhood.
