Head pillowed on concrete
I sought my only refuge, sleep.

Lights that never stop burning,
winds that never stop howling. I dream of a morning,
empty of people,

filled with the sun, filled with the street,
but empty of people.

A lone bird will wander close by-
despised Indian myna, brown-suited,

black-balaclavaed, yellow claws marching.
Its yellow burnished eyes will look into my eyes,

head cocked and quizzical:
one look, that is all.

Earthbound these birds,
but their eyes know gliding,

windcurrents, high sky riding,
weather-beaten leanness,

the mighty globe's buffets.
But that is all a dream,

stealing through the rain-affected streets
to my head pillowed here,

to my shoulder under
the blanket unpurloined,

never believing the unforgiving concrete,
still waiting for its firmness to flow.

At 6am I move on
through the rivers of twilight,

leaving the dawn discarded,
scrunched on the footpath;

knowing so well the shoes of the city,
my way not with theirs; falling away,

high or low instead for a dream.

Published in For The First Time (Post Pressed, 2000).