from
there is nothing to fall against this evening.
the sound pace divides lavish moon
in half, and inside a glass,
in clenched circles.

what slipped away glazed
this fruit with old glint: patent of territorial
anguish.

speeding right on by this evening,
the lift of morning borrowed from sweat.
I am tugged at
by a moving thing

sundered there, seeing whose anonymous
  back sways with flaxen hair
laughing freely into the wind
   and gone with it

to
everything brought to the edge
I listen to metonymies:

want* for running into
fear for holding a hand, a part of something
   now in union

light for the clearing of the path
  cluttered by feelingfulness

and pry open their meanings,
back into the fitting measure of waiting
as the slab of Sun lies like a dozing beast
on the streets where we surface
like the sound of falling

feet strong despite changing winds
  when mantling the living rivers
  of gradually dissipating lives

running away
even when no one was looking
we are headed to where
   we found ourselves
occupying spaces.