The last light as the sun
closes shop and makes its excuses,
the early day, the places to be,
going through it’s pockets,
checking it’s keys the way
we used to look at watches—
that spark to the start,
the when we began, the long reach
across the table tossing
all the shadows around,
the blinding bright before the curtain,
the moment where ancient forces
rewrite the world in Plato’s caves.
There in the knowing, the as it
happens always going off,
the breath staggered magic
the story always looking for
a start, the once upon or
so they say, the light
so bright as the light is leaving,
a wearing of all your ache
and want, the meat and the mystery
there at the crossroads,
showing the old three’s a crowd the door,
all at once something to be said—
just this, this too. This too.
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