In this city you will never see, 
night wills itself in the way night does
where you are: sky is smudge.
The stars: little threads, hinting
behind the clouds like a needle
through dark demin.

I don’t think of you at all
any more.

I think:
two blocks down,
the severe grandma
mends her grandson’s pants
on an old Singer: a love
chore under lamplight. 

Somewhere:
a room full of people 
smoking in the dark. 

See how,

next door, two lovers embrace
another silent dinner.

In my house?

In the city
I will never see–
I imagine–
night wills itself
in the way night does

where I am:
sky is smudge.
The stars: little threads.