The hotel’s sixth floor balcony
is high enough to see the Denver lights
and low enough to look up at the Double Tree sign,
which outshines the exile moon.
The air wears the thickness of city rain
recently fallen with nowhere to seep.
What loneliness cannot be met by the night?
Does dark travel as fast as the speed of light,
or is it the given, the track, the slate?
On Quebec Street, the buses are empty.
They stop at the corner and wait, then go on.
And the night, it somehow holds us all
on our separate stoops, in our separate doors,
on our separate lawns with our separate lives,
hold us all, doesn’t even ask our names.
wonderful!!!!!!!!
…which outshines the exile moon…Nice! The whole poem is brilliant in its darkness, the way it holds the heart. I love the detail about the buses especially, and those individual stoops so full and at the same time so empty.
Perfect. A keeper.
what’s that sound i hear? ah yes, it’s rosemerry firing on all cylinders.
i like that the darkness hold us al, never caring about our names. (this is one explanation why dark chocolate is the best chocolate; and the darker, the richer and the better.)