some pains can be heard. so
there could be sides there, the granular trapezes
of granites of the stairs to the small houses.
the geraniums jingle of the balconies where
for possession (of the house, of the bare
walls, boxes with nails), the lion cubs
fight endlessly, see how
time uproots them, honing
the back of the arrow – as much
as the oxide that indicates.

a discourse of they’ll hold/won’t hold
the vegetable gardens on the slope,
with or without terraces,
the dust-green plots of land of the
earlier generations
those of the war
before electronics
handed down in cash
tradition. trading