Words cut in Three by Alleys

There is in the light, a knowledge. No, not a knowledge, but a language. I do not know the words, but know the tone. Recognize in the vowels of dry leaves inst brick, a tattoo of time. Scarred stones, trace words with the ghosts of fingertips. Braille for those who can't read underwater any more.

Alleyways. Chimney smoke is invisible against skies. Far up from here, high above wooden fences. Brick walls and tiny windows. I cannot imagine the bathrooms behind winter-frosted glass. Pipes blow out steam, a gothic myth for these backwaters, scent of baths and laundry days, washing line air, captain nightshirt days.

Crooked streetlamp leans in the arms of a stunted trees. Alleyway trees are always stunted, twisted dirty things. Branches regard me with knotted eyes. I can't undo their gaze. A language I do not speak but am possessed by. Unholy tongues for a universe full of words that we are all afraid mean nothing.