the golden hour

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.