In the evening there was this vague talk
About mountains shrouded in August ice
Mixed with pearly ice and vague poplars
That lose their clear outlines to a vague sky.
Vaguely we would have our ginger and tea
In earth of cups, handed by Himalayan men
In overcoats as their mouths steamed words
As if they were the peaks that spewed vapor
Vaguely in the higher reaches of Himalayas.
We would vaguely dream the mountains
In our pillows and patience came to an end
As the dark reinstated behind shifting eyes.
And later, as we opened our eyes we saw us
In deeply held holes made of real concrete.
There was nothing vague about a clothesline
And a balcony that defined our real borders.