There it is again, an upward draught, faint as light breathed
against the night clouds, particular as the spark lacquered on
every fleck of rain let fall, let fall, let fall through the shifting
probe of headlamps or before the unwinking red lights.
The night rumour courses wide, exhaled from the suburbs of
attention. Here they drive communing in the car’s penumbra,
ghostly above the dash; there over coffee they confide a scruple
about the last scene. The rumour goes about.
It is later, it is really late. The foyers are darkened, their
leadlights a scribble on fish-grey, raked by a stipple of gleams
from outside — a tram to the depot?
Muted now. The summer insects, scratching of vines on
boards, running-noises of refrigerators and street-lamps, the tur-
ning of sleepers. The poorest performer at life is an acrobat, as
the rumour slung across moonless gardens and beneath roofs
sets swinging the old longings, notions let slip, tomorrows un-
founded. And nothing — screened, doused, forgone, forgotten —
need be hidden now. Neither the cockroach eaten by ants under
a corner of the lino nor the schoolgirl you wanted to be best
friends with, years ago, and stole her pink pencil eraser instead.
Miniscule, endlessly re-connecting and changing impulses
within the city’s slowed being, they are yours in the unlit room.
It is this the city-bred yearn for and come back to. This life you
wrap round your own.
© Judith Rodriguez