A Different Sameness

A Different Sameness

I comb burnt leaves
from Sara's hair, watch
the moon trace triangles
on her face; a streetlamp
blankets sixth avenue
like a bonfire, paints
a fleck of morning
on her arms. I drink
from bitter fountains, walk
past picture windows;
my reflection fades
to white-ash, slides in the street.
Cars rust outside the pawnshop,
watch me stumble. I punch
the curb, light my last cigarette,
draw pictures of her in wet cement.