The Night

There are people who say to the thing,
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.
I wish you wouldn’t look for me
when I never look for you, alright?”
And there are those whose shoes teeter
on the cold rail of an iron bridge
in the middle of the night, who say,
“Listen, I’m coming for you!”
before throwing their bodies down into iron-hard ice,
black water, because they wanted something
from the night it didn’t want to give.
I suppose these different outcomes
are the only poetry it has,
or ever will. Iron and ice water
and cinematic shadows
convinced someone it was a story
and it needed an actor.


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