wealthy street

think about your hands please.
let there be space between your fingers.
use as many words as it needs—they don’t mean much
but they don’t cost money.

once you’re walking and it becomes dark
no night descending, no oppressive weight
it just becomes dark—nothing else changed
but the streetlights

think what, my God
is happening? that the dusk has no fingers,
no cacophony of insects damp with the
memory of a failed season.

raving at the winter
like one dying—
it must be the empty summer instead,
the one that fled by day.

what does it mean, anyway,
for the world not to be on fire?
the road in the woods
the dusk without fingers.

think about your hands,
can you see them anymore?
moon and water, receding bands of day—
i never imagined being here with you

passed alone in the forest,
melting ice and distant winter birds
how? with whose eyes can i look
and live?

where must my feet go?
where my past? into whose arms
or whose night? it’s been a long time
getting well.

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