The Balcony
I thought it a mere illusion,
Ghosting here from stuff to shadow,
Veered towards uncertain dullness:
Your lamp that flickers in the dark.
Now at this elevated hole
I’ve lately passed the deadened time
Listening for your voice. Nothing
Blooms like flowers in a box.
None but you can touch
My outstretched fingers.
Your outline reaches
From the dimmed window.
