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.