And if she leant lonesome on the
sill, they’re talking by their shops, one of
them that is filled with old frames piling
up as musty as the slum that echoes with
his cough, she stared, in a waiting
stretching like the street, they stand,
gathered, in the stillness of that street,
the smallness of its width heightening its
length, and almost as empty as the other
one’s shelves where are just little cans,
bottled beers and some greens, a bit like
his life, sniffing and savouring the air,
arguing that a tackle’d been fair, talking
so time passes by before he’ll have to
plod back to his ramshackle slum – her
sharp alertness to some coming sounds –
stiffly, he stands, the length of the street,
one hand on the wall, his back with a

Ronan Hyacinthe began to write in Rome, after studying philosophy both in London and Paris. He now works in Lisbon. Some of his poems and haikus have appeared in American and British magazines.

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