cxiv.

the last time the dark fell
on the streets--

we were lit with strange fire,
moving and high,

as the roofline and low as
line in the cement,

it spread along the gutters
that bind the earth,
and illuminated them

the spark guttered
in the dark
space under the ribs

cxiii.

if the sun rises over some other bridge,
it falls on rounded cobbles
under trees, drooping, or bare
dropping leaves in the canals

mostly empty, sharp slanted sides
rising over a single boat, two
men with fishing pools

when they scoop the fish out of the mud
before the lake freezes over,
and bag them--and take them away,

I don't know where they go

on the other side of the lock I clambered over
he pounds his bare chest, and says he's eighty
each morning, he swims in the canal, in the dark
murky water--even in the winter

in the mist at the end of the great man-made lake
below the mountains, past the areas cordoned off
for military exercises--she smiles, face lined,
in a suit and bathing cap--

and slips into the freezing water.

maybe I'll live forever, since I've been cold enough
in shorts and sneakers in the winter,

along the towpath there's a construction camp, with
the trees falling green over it, in the summer--
the bicycles stream over it, where the wall spreads
onto the broad dirt road,

as the stars rise, riding down into the valley below,
shadows moving through the dark, someone starts
singing--

the villages that seem small, and stony, dusty
in the daylight--now grow larger,
in evening, rounded by the last edge of summer
in fall--in winter

the pulse fails, and then the limbs do, energy grinding
down slowly, as the sun sets, blood red
over the water, in a dark gray sky--

it's too late to turn at the t-junction,
and follow the easy way home, with night
falling quickly, the cold sharpens--

as the air starts to haze, then burn--in nose and lungs,
almost like it's vibrating, and in the irrigation ditch--

--turn back and run-down somewhere
by the construction site,
go forward and you may choke or burn out,
but the most dangerous thing is indecision--

--breathe shallowly.

--by the towpath, along the hedgerow, the water is murky
brown, topped with some black residue--that smokes
and wavers--it runs down into the fields below,

when the hedge breaks,
through the gap,
a bare parking lot and a cement building,

a lone security guard in a kiosk yells out, but a wave
and a cheerful greeting, lets him know you're crazy--
he won't bother you.

and at the bus stop on the street side, there's a line of
workers, covered in grey dust--the whites of their
eyes are yellow, their faces are lined with exhaustion,

and the stars rise over the ring-road, and the lights on
the shops gleam like darker stars, and bamboo
rustles, black through the park fence,

and the trees are tall, and the lanterns hang by the restaurant
and the gate is open, and at least it's warmer inside
than it was outside--

there's other ditches and other winters, maybe all ditches
are one ditch, unlike rivers

the cold can keep you warm,
keep you well-lit,
even when the streets are still,

--the impact comes later, shuddering
and shaking on some bright avenue
in perpetual summer.

the private cost of the past can
flicker in the deep tissue--

I know I won't live forever,
it doesn't bother me.

if you follow the ditch for a long time,
you might see small things
grow larger.