IN JANUARY

Only one cell in the frozen hive of night

is lit, or so it seems:

this Vietnamese café, with its oily light,

its odors whose shapes are like flowers.

Laughter and talk, the tick of chopsticks.

Beyond the glass, the wintry city

creaks like an ancient wooden bridge.

A great wind rushes under all of us.

The bigger the window, the more it trembles.