the city shuts its graffitied eyelids with a shudder, and sleeps the fitful sleep of one who is watched
this near the sun, there are no blinds thick enough, no curtains dark enough, to block the morning light

but for now, the streetlights that do work
illuminate men wearing bags, carrying bags, untieing and hoisting multitudes of plastic bags
their cats sit ladylike awaiting a turn at the heap

shadows under bridges hint of human forms
sidewalks trampled during the day are off limits
country people lurking in the dark
in a city they where they cannot sleep

I can't sleep either
you won't do what I want you to do
and I won't want what you want me to

Andean city, city 8,000 feet closer to the stars
facades only a mother could love
where the ironwork is delicate like her idolized hands
spared by the hands of a thousand wanderers
settling briefly to clean your sleepy homes
homes made by other women, homes not their own