Voices Among the Poles

The wind keeps names that have no home,
among the light posts, lost voices wander in silence.
Every breath becomes a thread of asphalt and rain,
and the air holds them, like snow on gates.
When it passes, it arranges them into a tongue of sparks,
a map of lights that rises among the wires.
We listen, eyes closed, to that remaining whisper,
memory returning, wind telling of the return.