The traffic light directs a single car to stop, then go. Far from oceans, from cities, far from any border, nothing can touch it. Beyond this street the streets do not have lights. They know their way. He is a prisoner among us, crying The awful boredom of observation, the unending Hours of afternoon empty to a creature Of smell and chase.
Voices come from nowhere.
They do not hear him. He tries to howl but sound Flattens in a bred-thin throat. Whoever owns him Consigns him to nothing when they go away. Across the street, I hear the constant sound of nothing Lashing him. He gives up, and then gives up Giving up, and cries again.