Neighbours

Two sounds,
the nightwind river
flowing down
a street tributary,
sobbing it`s way
to tomorrow.

And, as I watch
your window shades glimmer,
a thrush pleads with
the newly risen moon.

Here, I picture you
reading Bukowski
in dappled lamplight,
brushing aside
a stray wisp of hair,
sipping tepid coffee
as Bob sings nobody
feels any pain.

You will not know
this caressing wind,
hear the scurry
of leaf corpses
across this deserted street
or feel the first
breath of rain.

These are my realities,
the beginnings of truth.

Still I watch,
as the light dies.
And I think of you, alone
in a strangeness of moonlight,

your hair spreading
a dark bruise
across snowy linen.

Someday soon,
we will meet.