Miles Davis

This is a train station. There are
schedules to keep to

going somewhere (a note, a note
as cold as the bending sky) on alternate tracks.

This is the way doors open and close—irrational
on the lips of an overwhelming sanity—this is
the corner and the turn—a line of streetlights
weaving through the night—this is
holding the thought of a chord against the first November snowfall.

I will remember rooms and conversations and rain against
dirty windows—the way smoke snakes to doorways where strangers
enter—that feeling we have deserted the world to enter it
and the curled lint of conversations sliding from the skin of workplace
family faith construction sidewalks alleys lazy theologies.

This is arrival at midnight. Hesitation. Full stop.
Buskers of the faith music will carry

us into morning and street sweepers—
six men walking to work—the confusion

of a trumpet crossing against the light—
oh so very eager to.