by Gary L. McDowell
I knew a girl who closed her eyes
every time she heard a car horn,
drew koi on the knees of her jeans,
knew what it meant to be anonymous
in a crowd, and now I close my eyes,
step into the street—a reflection of the people
who’ve walked here before me—and know
that koi—a homophone
for love—can live two-hundred years,
but I can’t manage long without a window,
the patterns of streets and corners
when every city has its perfect hour:
moment before the light changes, moment we don’t
know ourselves from those orange or white
or blue fish: the sorrow we feel over traffic.
The shadows when we clench our eyes match
our ground-shadows pushing forward home.
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