A small fire starts this morning. A volley of smoke midair.
It vanishes after alighting on my papers, consuming them utterly,
but leaving the surface of the table unscorched.

I hear my neighbor's phone ringing.
There is a dog barking, children fighting, music shaking the walls.
I can hear everything: hunger makes the vision dull,
the ears keen.





I take the fire as a sign.
I try to make sense of it, to see your hand in it.
Perhaps it is too late: there is nothing but a long black streak of ash.