the sun is a gentle hand whirling
  softly past the opened windows

and I am a lonely furniture
sitting still beside restless shadows.

shall I give you my silence and
  come back with fledgling beat?

or be fastened with the riot of the masses
  pummeling the iron and striking blindly

like a palaver hurled in the middle
  of the midnight riddled by stars and

   nothing else? stones enisled conspicuously
like the hands of a mother have well-placed

   pavilions into their order, the careful crunch
of trees in Summer, filling the brim of ornate eyes

  with such redness hazily festooning the avenues
with the lissomeness of the Earth

little girls dressed  quaintly on Sundays
   the fragrance of mildew everywhere

     you against all the surrounding scenes
that break vases, pound the halls and leave doors

                      opened, yourself crawling away
dragging along the weight of your own shadow.