Late this summer, near fall, on the road.
The heavy heat, the weight, swept off in the wind,
northeast. The sky is cold, clean. It always is here,
but the air turns
These things we know: wood burning, torn wool sweaters,
sun sinking slow. They are here. Of course, they always are
but the lightness, the weight,
And in the cold, I think of home.
In the cold of the darkening road,
I think of you.
There comes a loss
like waking in the night, far from home, realizing
where you are, then the need to catch your breath. Loss
at the center of your chest.
your face grows distant, gilded between clouds
and rivers of concrete. Your voice in the wind, whistling
fragments from the roadside.
So you are beside me.
So we go home.
Our words are few. Thoughts are less permanent.
But the loss, the awareness, is
here. Fragile but
These feelings will pass like night
without heat to weigh them down.
The absence, sadness, enters through the window
And just like that
| 93 Berry Street | Brooklyn, NY 11211
| October 2000 | Volume 8