We came here alone and we’ll leave alone.
Our own voice the only one there ever was
the only one the cobblestones will listen to.
That’s when we own a world,
filled with only the buildings and the forests we’ve seen
and we made everything.
Each swollen brick reminds us of our own fatigue.
Each hanging gutter of our own mistakes.
We never know what happened to that childhood friend-
could’ve had four daughters and a dog.
Now them and the lovers and the mothers who weep
are so far away they’re all the same:
black and white faces coming off in the rain.
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