are easy to possess—the dim tunnel
where trains flow, submerged halls
fevered and dense, make it such
that if we go barefoot we will touch
high places, anyhow—or so they
say. Let nighttime test them, then:
the girls decide to go home late,
balancing accounts on their necks
like pearls, singly or in sequences,
almost safe, leaving the last hours
to the boys who reach flat rooftops
lined with iron, not to jump,
instead, burning the ants of cars, to find
again the whisper, this is mine, mine…