A poem I wrote on Thanksgiving Day, 2001


Edinburgh. The quality
of light—the four

o’clock honeycomb
candle wax tissue

paper beam
saturating every pore in the street,

every rivulet of every brick,
that four o’clock

perpetual sunset each hour.
Light falling on jet black hair.

Stepping from the shower
at the bed & breakfast

into a towel like
a russet potato

and the sleep into which
I flung myself, joyously: these

before my solitary stroll
to the crest of the street,

an intersection with three churches
known as Holy Corner.

With espresso
I sat in the window of a tiny

storefront and watched
the couple walking their dogs,

walking their dogs
like anyone would do anywhere

else I’ve ever been in
this world. Pausing

in front of

to discuss plans, dinner, perhaps
their children.

At that moment
I was part of everything.


November 2001

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