Past Dusk

Light posts
stitch shadows
on pavement.

Blue sky
shades lighter
at edges.

The smell strikes me
as indescribable.
It is memory,
city, forest, swamp.

Brittle leaves
drift
scrape.

A cat
trots across pavement
skittering into brush.
We do not exchange glances.

This is not real.
Real life is elsewhere.

Street,
Road,
wind forces me onward.
It chooses my path
pushing until
the hush—
one o’clock
draws itself
up from the dead earth.

I cannot tell
what holds meaning
or significance.

I cannot tell
what it is
I think I’ll find
dappled beneath
tree shadows past dusk.

Have I found it?
If only
it would find me.