There are things we are alike in: that the city
is our family. In early morning we drove, slowly,
to the center of the streets. Stopped. And then
waited, staring at our hands and feet
as if willing them to move.
(Read the story in your hands, follow
lines in the palm like a drunk occultist.
Here we have pain; there you are dying
but never dead and always mourning
something illuminated in it’s own darkness.)
None of this is important but for what happened next.
Elsewhere, later, we simply watch the city
from the side of a bridge (I can’t recall the name)
where years ago they splashed grey and black
paint on the grey and black stone. My mother
used to call it art because she knew someone,
there, was trying to capture the city in statement.
The play of light on the edge of far buildings
is a wall staggering back and forth. How small
things look from afar is a common sentiment
yet sometimes even common things
seem miraculous in the right light. You see,
we’re all light. In sensing each other, we bathe
in cool blues and simmering ocher. In seeing
we make the world real.
We are candles under streetlamps
as the city expands and recedes into fog.
My hands. Your hands. It is too dark to divine
intention. Let us find each other through groping
about in darkness.