MID-FEBRUARY, LATE AT NIGHT
I have stood
in this place a long
time waiting for
shame to produce
the wild, tender
thoughts I’ve called
up in the past.
Where is the book
I’ve not written?
Where is the house
and the barn I saw
when I slept then
wrote about when I woke?
I am a servant to this city. I love each single star
just for the pleasure of being able
to see it, the air being what it is sometimes.
The moon pulls at the hem of my sleep shirt
and, in the same way, the kitchen light
in the apartment across pulls at the same hem.
Unsettling, sad as it may be
All rivers don’t run into the sea
They all wish they did or could or might do
Running never seems to work for me.