its burden: teeming rain
that pelts the pan-tiled roofs.
It washes pavements clean of dog shit,
sluicing my prejudice,
as unowned refuse, to the drain.
Awake. Streetlight through shutters
bars our bedroom wall.
From the all-hours web café
below, a hacking cough explodes.
I picture Monte Christo
above his vertical, looking out:
a long way to fall.
x.2012 / vii.2014
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