Departure 

​

The traffic light changes

on the other side of the bus window.

 

The glass isn't wet today—

it's spring. I shudder

 

at the warmth, the idea

of turning. I saw you there

 

one last time, facing away—

I couldn't wave at you

 

with hands trapped

under a dead light pole.

 

What kind of hope

can I adjust my eyes to

 

now I'm leaving, headed

for another lifetime?

 

I just turned twenty

and time is not just palpable

 

but visible. A red signal

stares at us for a while—

 

but the light turns green

and we part.

​

​

​

Midnight Snow

 

I'd like to ignite the pictures

so your face flickers in my sigh.

 

When your ashes powder the city

I will, at last, accept winter—

 

swirls of memory

flashing through a street lamp.