The houses jammed one on top of the other,
or face to face without exchanging glances. The elbows
of the chimneys shove each other in the night. The bakery's light
is a sigh that allows a small passage on the street.
A cat looks behind her. Vanishes. A man
entered his room. On his blanket,
over his iron bed, he found reclining
the crowded desolation of the city. As he was undressing,
he recalled that he hadn't noticed if there was a moon.
The bulks of the houses were shuffling in his memory
like cards in a closed, secretive gambling room
where all the players had lost. And he needed to imagine
that someone must love him, within these numberless houses,
so that he could sleep, so that he could wake up.
But, yes, of course there was a moon — he remembered
its illumination in a ditch with soapy water.