Night

These some weeks past
in the cadential sway of talk
we walk along the wide arc of the ground
after finding one another on the gentle outskirts
of some anonymous town.

We met and embraced, and to my surprise
slender and in pinstripes you folded
clean in two over my outstretched arm
your suit incandescent like the bejewelled sky, and of the same colors

Your friend, a photographer, had died.

You recalled the smell of hypo in the basement, then
I held you up and affirmed the beautiful malodor of fix
In the path of dry dust quietly laid between blades of night-grass
balancing drops of night-dew, each with a refraction of our dream-moon

In the path toward the dream-house we walked until I woke