the clanking of the radiator
is the only sound
except her breathing
which she measures
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 love
of the last light
of the last star
in her galaxy of loss
only one drop falls
into her cradled cup
when it vanishes
in the indifferent sea
she sups it slowly
back inside
where the night belongs
but never stays