The last of the light
winds its way down
in the night-cleft
and the dark distills
a still-tremble in the trees
along the boulevard,
the evening wind
softly troubling the leaves.
And, as ever, someone ends up missing,
stepping of the curb
into the lamplight, a wisp
of fog, dissolving into the weather—
a return to the water
of which we were made.
And what remains resides
in the mind,
a dream of endless falling
emptiness filling
the heart’s black pond.
Perhaps now there’s jasmine
in bloom, an iris
in decay, the yellow tulips
severed in a crystal vase.
The windows square by square
alight, a shadow
passes through a curtained frame,
a ghost in a portal of air.
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