you used to light a pipe every night at sunset as it dropped in a navy blue sky when the air was dry and a few rays overpowered the rest, something the clouds in a tinted pink;

in its predictability, your quick ritual

all the universe appeared new for you, and, therefore, a pleasure.

for me it was the same as usual.

in a late summer evening the confetti colors of cars, subtle but still seen, raced past sidelights that were off and fast asleep.

with your left hand hovered over the street, barely touching its granules, it felt as if it was asleep, too.

bums are mining dumpsters for sandwich scraps by a pervasive moonlight,



while you speak to yourself under your breath

you have a a vision where even in the dark
it's as if everything is sun