All night it felt like saying goodbye, 
as if we were meeting by the park gates, 
holding each other’s hands, while snow 
drifted through the streetlights.

The river flowed between its dark banks. 
That might have been another time, 
in a small city with a lovely garden 
and a street lined with with twenty bars. 

My mother visited once, and when she
saw the sign for the sandwich shop, 
she asked us where the subway goes. 

We waited for the bus, knowing 
it would be late, and when it came 
the driver let us on for free. 

Once we took a taxi, and the cabbie 
took us to his brother’s restaurant. 
We tipped him, and he made us wait 
while he fished out two bottles of wine. 

It was the strangest ride we ever took, 
with stars splashed across the sky, 
and all the city lights shut down 
for emergencies that never reached our ears.
                        

I am waiting for the frogs, 
waiting for the bear 
that lumbers out in moonlight.

Above the mountain
turkey vultures 
careening 
through smoke-thick sky.

August heat hangs heavy. 
Nothing moves in the dark 
woods, no sound by the swale.

Nothing will bring this night 
closer to the flesh of my face, 
or stamp its image against my eyes.