Posts Tagged ‘Denver’

She did not know how
to articulate the existential risks
in a world of immortals, but

she did know she wanted
hot chocolate. She did know
the white lights strung across Larimer Street

reminded her of, well, she didn’t quite know what,
but she liked them, she liked them tonight
with the cup of hot chocolate (too much milk

and not enough cayenne) warm in her hands.
Scent of exhaust and urine and trash like the city
always has in the summer. And the sound of a man

plunking away on his guitar, his voice
not perhaps what she had hoped, but he was
after all singing. Yes, she though, if I were

alive forever, I would sing. And kiss. And sleep.
She could not say what was changing, but
she knew that it was, that it had been changing

since yesterday, since early last year, since her birth, since before that.
“It’s alright,” she said, to no one, “It’s alright if
tonight we do nothing,.” But something

was already happening, It had something
to do with emptiness. It had something
to do with night. Her shoes were lost

beneath the street. She knew she could not keep
the dawn from coming.
She didn’t even try.

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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.

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