In Defense of Melancholy

Pablo Medina

At least once a week

I walk into the city of bricks
where the rubies grow

and the killers await

the coming of doves and cats.

I pass by the homes of butchers

and their knives sharpened by insomnia

to the river of black sails

and the torn-up sea and the teeth of dogs.

She waits for me in a narrow bed,

watching the rain
that gathers on the broken street

and the weak light of dusk

and the singing trees.