A man rounds the corner, zigzag
shadow reaching for the woman
who steps out of it.
He’s a late-comer, can’t catch up
to the lady strolling through dusk
that blazed gold only this morning.
He’d pulled the quilt over his head,
begged the clock for ten more minutes
but she’d already pitched forward
into events no one plans for.
Along straggling streets
that will never connect them,
the woman moves on.
Behind her, the man elbows through
the crush, searching all the places
where a door is left ajar,a wedge of light
spilling onto steps fallen from the house
into the hooded evening.
He’d have followed her the way she wanted,
but night curves without warning, the stars
do not touch, the road stretches down to the sea.
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