Not high enough for suicide or low for easy landing, save for the cinematic timing of a feline leap onto the back of a passing semi. Not that I’ve considered it— but my eyes have, & in this way I’ve sent my energies into the possibilities, like dogs after the Missing into the ravine of time. As a child, I watched the funnel cake-fat catfish disappear under the park’s footbridge & reappear on the other side, as the twin barracudas of headlights current now into the black expressway like nostalgia. I’m ready to say that whatever holds our attention is a brief god, that Americans have many, that lovers can be glorified; that stopping with my hands in my ratty peacoat pockets here is reverence for my own life, even if I measure it against its impact on the pavement. I don’t know any songs the wind also doesn’t. I sing them— I better get home. I walk buckled brick back into the neighborhood, Sunday quiet. Framed in the windows above the back doors are green bottles collecting dust. Sometimes I glimpse a silhouette & know someone’s home. The more we speak of the world, the more it becomes metaphor. So let me stop here— at the back gate of the dark yard that surrounds the house filled with light & the music of a body’s weight going up the stairs. I could almost believe the world would give me another life by the way a streetlight files the house’s shadow, darkening down my boots.