the clanking
of the radiator
the only sound
except her breaths
which she counts, as if
she knows the finite number
until her last
her coffee cold;
in it she sees the night
from which she came:
the blind, deaf walkers,
the fuming taxis she left
in the square streets
her eyes well
with the last drops
of the last light
of the last star
in her galaxy
of loss
only one tear falls
into her cradled cup
where it vanishes into
the indifferent sea
she sups it slowly
back inside, where night belongs
but never stays