7.31.00

Seven o'clock and all accepting social lives are tucked away in darkened pubs and restaurants breathing each the others' evaporations. Otherwise, god combs the earth with golden tines in great westward strokes, searching for the home-less and the just-alone, or those in between. My time is coming, I know; I and the others in the crepuscule continue on individual paths despite. But at this moment my path is awaiting. And so before I go I turn my face toward the new moon dropped lowly in the west and use it to ruminate slivers of life and the way the curvature reminds me of a melancholy eye.

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