45/365

The city is burning again at sunset
I am standing on the water’s edge
looking into reflections–
the water mirrors blood.
There is, as ever,
too much space around.
The fog creeps across the sound
and I feel the approach of that last breath
and no hand to smooth wayward strands of gray
and no wrist from which to unhook
my clinging, bony, fingers.
The city might be glowing, if ever
I had romance in my bones.
instead I’ve a sightless urge to run
quivering relentless in my marrow.
The city might be aflame in my eyes
if I let you press against me on red mornings
if I let you lead me to red skies at night.
The city is burning again–
glass, concrete, and pane.

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