Nets tangled and wet cast
shadows across a step street. An urban
torch flickers. Those narratives

get recorded large and
blotched on skyway
glass back in this middle

where below there’s tonight’s snow—
laced with diamonds—and a full moon
to guide me home.

Belated Love Poem

This is not
about dissecting bee
hives, celebrating dead
presidents (stacked or face

down), the last time
I saw grass grow
anywhere. This is

about the first time
we spoke and you made
a joke and the train jerked
to a full stop. It was the end

of the line,
and you and I
had just begun.