In the middle hours of morning
while the yawning city stumbles awake
I feel the chasm of night receding
window by window, light by light.
I follow the dark river, leading
west, leading home.
Day and night thinly joining
until Time is bare in the gloaming sky.
O where goes love in the fullness of
these dwindling desultory days?
Does it wait there—in spectacle where
these moments are glimmered away?
River is true. Actual as Earth.
More real than Tuesday morning.
By its edge, its murk and gush
contain the fruit of love.
Somewhere between is everything.
Wind soft across my cheek.
Lungs in thrall to junipered breath.
Throat, upon my sleeve.