THE FOUNTAIN AT TWILIGHT

The day escapes into a sea of sleepy air;
the warmth of the sun is swallowed by
the sound of water flowing into water
which leaks into the sound of my breath.
I inhale,
exhale cooly.

While the water falls, a girl turns on her lights and closes her windows.
A couple on the stoop beside me speaks in low murmurs then
falls silent.
One of them leaves and the rhythm of heels hitting stone sets the tempo,
andante;
I flick away a little black beetle who creeps along my unshaved thigh.

The rising moon provokes the impatience of the sky.
It feels like a giant wave approaching;
taller than my father
but falling faster,
loud, booming and mysterious
waiting for the right time to let go.

Street lights hold stubbornly on to their incandescent glow
but I belong to the ebb of blue sleepy air.
My lungs release something of my soul to the sky
and my body blends into the dark ground as I stand to leave.

Time is not a collection of years that we can count and categorize
but a tragic, incorruptible tendency of nature
ready to erase our memories like the light of the sun,
just as it ushered them in.