A man rounds the corner, zigzag
shadow reaching for the woman
who steps out of it.
He’s a late-comer, can’t catch up
to the lady strolling through dusk
that blazed gold only this morning.
He’d pulled the quilt over his head,
begged the clock for ten more minutes
but she’d already pitched forward
to events no one can plan. Along
straggling streets that will never
connect them, the woman moves on.
Behind her, the man elbows through
the crush, searching all the places
where a door is left ajar. A wedge
of light spills onto steps falling
from the house into the hooded evening.
He’d have followed her the way
she’d always wanted, but night curves
without warning, the stars do not
touch, the road stretches down to the sea.
by Cheryl Snell
Editor’s Note: In this poem, the reader isn’t sure if the woman pursued is real, a shadow, or beam of light. In the end, it doesn’t much matter. The point is the pursuit, not the person.
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