It is the simple things
that I cannot say. My dreams
are never in English. I speak
to myself in Taiwanese, in Russian,
these days. We are walking together.

We are separated. Taking a different
bridge, I wander towards a concrete horizon.
There, efficient Asian men rearrange
the shattered bodies of a thousand
pigeons. My feet are stained with blood.
Then they are gone.

From the window of an old train
radiating autumn light,
I spot you under a flock
of umbrellas, standing outside
a store which is never open.

I hear the voices of an army
of shoes, from behind the window glass,
calling out to you, and when I
am an arms length away
the background slides out of view.

I looked at you, and I could not
say "I was lost," because I did not know
what language we were speaking.