Returning to this place at night
all the bricks she collected and placed as a walkway
take on a new aspect, as worn-smooth letters reconstitue by shadows
a familiar face becomes strange
a walkway through dissimilar seasons
the memory of night is more urgent inside the emptiness of day
A stranger looks with kindness and familiarity
the changing textures of skin as a sun is removed from the world
to return to this place during day
would visit an empty room– possibly a criminal tresspass
an antiseptic cabinet of work orders
night can’t contain such things
it’s already filled
with insect song and the smell of heated honeysuckle and asphalt
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