Lena

You used to write then, of smoky laughter and winters, tales and all the rest, awful stories of the tenements, scrawled over by wet kisses, men who had lost everything, but made you their friend, do you want me in splinters, to read all that again, the little lines of credit, dollars dimes and dodgy business, houses lying within a sentence, nothing else but that wee pen, sunken sunlight by the river, for us far off kin, why only help to fashion, the dreams of lonely sisters, donning boots and leathers, your smudges like a siren ?