Photo by geir tønnessen

This evening the sky
above the horizon
was a purple band
but thin and unconvincing,
like a bad belief
and the ivy climbing the stone buildings
was disconsolate
and wouldn’t look at me.

Disbelief can be astonishment
or godlessness,
depending
and sometimes I feel good and sometimes
there’s only a small itch
where love should be.

On the sidewalk
in front of me
a woman held herself
slightly forward and in
as if she could make a small house
of herself,
as if she was astonished
by her own feet.

Around us
the air lost light
like a drained sink
loses water
and trees were
briefly vivid
so I knew
they weren’t dying.

Dying looks
like something else—

like a rose garden
cut down to its trellises;
like a motor idling
in reverse before it’s cut;
like a wheel lifted
and set down by a mess
of fur near the shoulder lane;
like my friend
who made a small house
of himself like a heretic;
like a house in the night
with all its lights
blown out.