AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SKY
Dark shapes of evening settle among the rooftops.
They are pieced between the trees and over streetlamps
like parts of the sky you could live in.
A gauze any sleeper would want.
They make the things of the city belong
to each other. The houses with their melancholy doors.
All the shades pulled down in the windows
with just a guess of a body behind them.
Even the watcher in the street is at home
with separation, the blur edging lines
from his eyes. Making the body familiar to itself.
No one can see all his shadow as he walks.
Wherever he walks is all right now. Already he looks up
as if he were loved from some great distance.