On Sherbrooke West
A palm of wind ushers in
the blank wall’s call for an omen.
Traffic’s exhaust huffs
past my knees. Evening
is a lone crow going east.
I remember morning’s
silk of pinks, the dotted
power lines and how if we sat
long enough together
we’d find some time and get
around to facing up
to saying what we meant
to each other. Hot air bulges
from the dryer vent, its bluster
going clear. It’s so cold
breath is a ghost going west—
and I can hear you,
high in the black
veins of winter trees crackling
across dusk’s last blue.
across dusk’s last blue.
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