Nights, here, are different…

Nights, here, are different: blinding, hot, obscure,
the starless blanket sky filled out with grey,
streetlights smudged large along each expressway,
as if those little moons think they can cure
the dimness. Nothing here is dark. Through
the clouds metal ships blink, callous, austere;
the twilights fade incoherently here.
It’s as if noon over there sticks to you,
the light writ large above the riverside.
But we’ll emerge from the trains one day in fall –
the sun will die, I’ll reach for you, through all
the choking blackness – will you run to hide
and leave me grasping? Or will you be there,
finding your steps with me, fighting the air?


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