There at the other end of loneliness
the dim skyline, like an insect
trapped into the sunset amber.
Light scuds to the gutter, and the last
warmth of the day stiffens to cold.
Under the winged eaves, penumbras
bloat into peat-colored lintels,
like words swallowed for being wrong.
We outlanders still pull our bones
like empty suitcases in this city
of a million homes. Our speech
a poor translation of want.
Most of the time we stand, like now,
at a random block, and watch the city fall
into monochromes, negating our tiny narratives.
Almost December, always these gritty
streets, and again this me standing
at a crossroads where trash has settled
like un-reason. Already, stores selling
Christmas in ribboned wreaths hanging
like exclamations. I want
this winter to be less about the end,
meaning I’m still capable
of love, meaning I want to yield
to the terror of finding myself
through another man, like leaves drawn
to hardened earth, or ice on water.
Though every part of me loosened
into cold like a laceless shoe, I’m ready
for what I have to lose.