Even if it were true
even if I were wisps of smoke
curling into the grey sky
even if I were ashes falling back
into the groves allotted for me
in the neat grids of time
I would still pluck the strings
of the hawk-cuckoo’s call
in between four and five a.m.
when the workers start stacking their boxes
in the ventricle of Central.
I would still dance with the windswept debris
of the streets into the first light.
In the sooty passage of cars
there is still motion, birth,
a baby wailing in the back seat.
In the churned-up concrete of the Harbour
there is still gentleness
in the lovers’ touches.
We are not tired, nor angry,
nor naïve. We are learning to love,
shoutingly, tenderly, feelingly.
In the circling darkness, there is a center
and in that center

we are chasing
the sun.