Topography of the Bit Players | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Chronogram Magazine

Tonight I miss her like a dying man
misses a country he never saw. In fact,
he never left this town we're in together

where the weight of air pushes our veins
towards our bones and dust flickers
in the spot lights between the shadows

that indicate people taking the scene in.
The scene is this: Me at a mic with a dim
sense of perspective. Also, you on a stage

in the middle of a dark sea. Between us
a group of men on a corner speaking
French. It's late of course, the way

it must be when reconciling a life
unlived to the blue hue lent the sky
by those gold domed capital lights.

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