#120

The eyes still have what the hands have held. The stranger that comes in the dark to the village. In a language, lost. On a line that leads. The last two weeks of spring. And then? In the old book given me by Les, I read "what God hath cleansed, call not thou uncleane." The thirteenth. Clear sky, and moon. Spotlit, Jeehyun, In the open box of a Walnut Street bus stop. Philadelphia in June. I must pass. Those who feast, they couple glances, loll their legs under outdoor tables. Of them, for you, my word.