#171 The World in the Evening (Rachel Sherwood)

Un poema muy mío que captura muy bien esa especie de extrañeza, de intimidad medio descubierta, que se manifiesta en las luces de las casas por la noche.

(via)

THE WORLD IN THE EVENING

As this suburban summer wanders toward dark

cats watch from their driveways — they are bored

and await miracles. The houses show, through windows

flashes of knife and fork, the blue light

of televisions, inconsequential fights

between wife and husband in the guest bathroom

voices sound like echoes in these streets

the chattering of awful boys as they plot

behind the juniper and ivy, miniature guerillas

that mimic the ancient news of the world

and shout threats, piped high across mock fences

to girls riding by in the last pieces of light

the color of the sky makes brilliant reflection

in the water and oil along the curb

deepened aqua and the sharp pure rose of the clouds

there is no sun or moon, few stars wheel

above the domestic scene — this half-lit world

still, quiet calming the dogs worried by distant alarms

there — a woman in a window washes a glass

a man across the street laughs through an open door

utterly alien, alone. There is a time, seconds between

the last light and the dark stretch ahead, when color

is lost — the girl on her swing becomes a swift

apparition, black and white flowing suddenly into night.