Outside early and it has already fallen dark.
Neon flashes in the city,
and as you walk you can see inside the windows left open,
galleries of lives alive and moving behind walls.
It is cold, and your eyes water.
Tears run down your cheeks, almost frozen.
Your hands burrow into coat pockets, almost warm.
This is where you live, in a halfway time,
neither winter or fall, surely not spring or summer.
It is too cold for your taste, but not cold enough to kill,
not even slowly,
neither sick nor well, living on the fringes of each,
a powerful presence lost in the crowds of night,
lost in the dark. searching for holy water and food
that will sear your soul with hope.
You walk through the night. It is a familiar place,
strangely anonymous, suspicious of false light and promises,
slow to condemn, and slower still
About this poem
Simply the product of an odd night. Early too soon. Living in the country. Imagining the city. Yearning for the ocean. Somewhere between melancholy and vibrant.