The Arcade in Cleveland

The place l wait for the public library to open.

To return the book with my empty hands,

the place where a boy had taken it away.

I wait for the open time in this glorious boat.

Hearing the near Erie lake water

flapping my resting sail,

I become a place build for waiting,

with stores all closed.

Tourists take photos and leave,

confused footsteps spreading on the cold old corridor.

I hear them extending to a round dome

and disappearing suddenly—

this repetitive sound—the last echoing sentence

he could have completed.

I wait for the boy coming back with no word,

but a book, covered with a tacit silver mask.

Beneath it are azure waves, flickering vaguely,

like cracks of grey nights quivering in my dream.

In those dreams l am still waiting,

like a half-sunken timber, an isolated isle,

for a man opening the door of his body,

the next line of his spirit surging to my shore.

I am waiting to finish this book,

give it up and return back.

So open your lips and break the vow.

Pick up your silence, and lay it on my pages,

to drench our bodies again

with all meaningless words.