The young woman sewing by the window

hums a song I don’t know; I hear only

a few bars, and when the trucks barrel down

the broken walkway between our buildings

the music is lost. Before the darkness

leaks from the shadows of the great cathedral

I think I see her at work and later hear

in the sudden silence of nightfall wordless

music rising from her room. I put aside

my papers, wash, and dress to go out.

I have a small dinner at one of the cafes

along the great avenues near the port

where the homeless sleep. Later I walk

for hours in the Barrio Chino passing

the open doors of tiny bars and caves

from which the voices of old men

bark out the stale anthems

of love’s defeat. “This is the world,”

I think, “this is what I came

in search of years ago.” Now I can go

back to my single room, I can lie

awake in the dark and rehearse

all the trivial events of the day ahead,

a day that begins when the sun clears

the dark spires of someone’s God, and I

waken in a flood of dust rising

from nowhere and from nowhere comes

the actual voice of someone else.