Sidewalk Poem #16

Moving in the Almost

From some distance I have come
By the only way, past the church upon the hill,
the village clock and shuttered windows,

Down the street that leads to where you live,
To each house until it is the simple
Outline of where you might be;

Form the road to the gate to the door,
From the door to the room to the bed.
In the bed the figure turning. The moon

Poured out. One finger to reach the furthest edge until you wake and I look
Hard into our face as if never seen before

And it is enough to make you rise,
Leave behind the room, the door,
The gate click as you walk out

And follow me to where I go. Now it is you
Who enter until you are leaving. Back and forth
We move as if each time we will be done.

[Sophie Cabot Black.]

 

[A nighttime street in Russia.]