I never leave their house without
a full belly, at least drunk, aura
of cigar smoke about my beard.  
Hours on the balcony
are progress, compass
pointed to no fixed place,
always correct.
And outside, winter wind
is a bouquet of knuckles, night
a bag of soil into which I reach
my hand and pull, enter
the cab. The driver
recognizes this silence,
my head on the window
like a ladder against a wall
leading up to the roof, to climb
under another spangled night.