when it wanders in the first snow a chill light happen to be alive walking in a silver crease with my father looking for Villon and her and them
in the flow of existence where 9 rivers meet and split in the presence of bodies qualified to receive souls in the presence of scattered instruments of creation in the squeezing of what’s left
to keep expanding at night
is it too late? is it over? is it time? What’s moving there? what’s the damage? is it too cold? are his fingers frozen? is there someone sleeping there?
with the emergence of a scheme in the depleted streets as Macy lights cascade from the facade in the sizzling conflict of Jewish-Arab sides in the beginning of the political year in the irritating dust as the aged face the future looking for family give in to the old man’s demands for once in sympathy a concentrated stamina to be many people at once of many places of many times
to keep coming back in the insistence of light’s aim in the poisoned rain from an unknown cloud
walking from work in an aura of nightlamps between speeding cars fascinated by a luminous hat shop window tips in my sock
freed sometimes by the city’s largeness
to watch to dare and to be silent
rage against bigotry in all bone!
a Java eye, a jalopy pen
she died kind my mother’s death radiates ethereal light