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Published first in Dream Fragments, Cactus Press, 2020
The day does not change, it simply becomes
another day. At the cusp of the sunset, a plane came for my eyesight,
lowering itself suddenly into the evening—it was often
airborne travellers came, eager to see a place
I knew more intimately than they could. The cross on the church
is watchful over the midnight city. It too will
abandon in the morning. But the morning is
another morning. The workers down the street are digging up the earth.
You can hear the dark waters gushing, the guts of the city,
bared and turbulent. Somewhere by the gaping hole
in the ground, it is said
that I crossed the street. I was somewhere there,
although no one can quite agree where. I used to think I was someone,
but I was just another one
of those pedestrians whose faces
we never quite catch.
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