August 24

I could sleep now
in this raft of a bed,

or later, or eat
an unreasonable dinner,

or make something sensible,
or wait, getting lost

in a book, or a thought,
or these small rooms,

quieter in your abscence.
Another city night,

some man sings loudly
into the velvety dusk,

and it’s not clear
whether the high rises

are cast in cool blue
hues due to this sky

or to their glass
or if such a distinction

could even be made.
Cold at night now,

I close the windows
and draw the shades,

ruminating on
negative space.

OPTIONAL POETRY