Confused dwellings line up along branching paths
like leaves of a giant tree whose brambles
are dirty and rugged against the sky and settingsun,
shaken to shreds in nervous heap of doors and windows.
The hard-featured face is a sick man's at night
asleep to regain a health or catch a breath.
Shanties kneel in confluence, deep lines that mark
tired reasoning of the mind at the point where
running nerves reel in drunken man's
stupor.
They lean on one another, causeways, clotheslines and
lamp posts to sustain the props and stage,
the wind shakes but only slightly shy
consciousness of
the deepslumbering houses.

A dog barks after moving shadows sharp
a soul yawns through muffled mouth;
townasleep
is neither wary of surreptitious thieves nor
discomforted by the cold weatherblowing.
It must be that
it takes more than situations to separate
the dreaming from the darkness of curfewhours,
witchingtime of goblins in high-flying chairs!

- Dias