In wind, the dark leaves bristle.  
He walks through the park, footsteps 
muffled by the damp grass, night air 
cold against his face.  

The stars in their positions glint, 
track him through 
the tall willows, their arms 
dragged down to the dirt.

This late, the place strewn 
with the waste of crushed cigarettes, 
the broken threads of light 
unraveling through the trees, 

he’s come to meet you here 
alone, his hands 
rising like birds out of the shadows, 
flocking to their desolate source again.