Neil Aitken

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Letter XXI


Northbound at dusk, I imagine you
in a neighboring city, someplace not far
from here, with not much between us.
Road. Window. Farmland. A settlement
or two. Perhaps even cows. Or a ghost town
made of cardboard and steel, narrow spaces
which I pass through like indecisive light,
uncertain of what I intend to be until it's too late.
It's always too late, by the time I realize
I know nothing about you. Know nothing
about sound. The way your body creaks
when you sigh, how you lift your arms above
your head, the invisible moon in your left fist,
in your right, a glass filled with fire.

 


Photo Credit: Staff

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