The muted stars and
the tattered fleece of a
streetlight
Both wreathed the road in
dimming light,
I feel the earth pushing
back through my soles
And I can hear everything
around my head.
Everything surrounds me.
I am a point, a set of points
In some graph drafted and
plastered on the board,
brought in to show how
little you’ll ever know.
Uncertainty is a principle
Follow its hanging hand
across sad little streets
Some shops are open all
night.
I look both ways, and down
at my hand free of all
doubt.
The alley eyes blow steam
like smoke
An older woman’s fingers
straddle a morning ciggy
And she passes me just by
sitting where she is.
Squat, on a brand-new
walker,
Could be a gift from Uncle
Sam, or cousin arthritis
Either way I’m certain she
is well
accounted for, on the
sheets they will wrap her
in.
I’m sure the streetlights
will be on
and she’ll die someplace
without the stars.
I am certain, when the
wind is done
pulling fingers of paint off
of the city’s last mural,
and the nibbling tide has
caved cities back into tar,
and mourner’s little mural
is paved over
by the cast of eternally
melting obsidian,
That no one will hear the
last whimper of thoughts
in my head
As I disappear from the
page.
