Nocturne, from behind Glass

" a shipwreck we die going into ourselves"
- Pablo Neruda 

It’s not just the poets 
or minstrels who sing about death— 
under the moon, everyone today 

must be a poet, must be a lover 
standing at a window, streaked face
turned in the direction of the one

gone away. What do the trucks
in the streets carry, hidden from view?
Bandages, gurneys; loaves of bread, 

flowers? We've learned to press a hand
to the glass in a way that could mean I'll nurse 
you back to health, if not hope or goodbye. 

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