You begin somewhere, perhaps
it is on a road or a bridge
or by the river that runs beneath it.
Perhaps it is at the foot
of a 500-year-old maple
whose October branches vault above you,
Wherever you are, it is
a moment and a place:
Your life has brought you here,
will take you away.
So consider your options:
will you pull a leaf from the tree
or simply wait, do nothing.
One thing you’ve learned:
From here, the moon is a manhole to streets
we climb toward — its cover coming crescent,
the crescent waning closed.
Then your hand tightens in mine. Your silence says
my name and turns me to absence.
But walking this town’s dark where you aren’t, the pressure
in my palm isn’t nothing, nor…