sometimes at the top of the hill
there are stories that float up
from each of those lights
signaling their revolutions
pulling me into memories of the over there
or imaginary dramas
like elderly couples planning each other’s assisted suicide
or teenagers learning the ways of rooftop exits
into rebellion in empty spaces between lights
down there life is being made
and death continues to shouldertap
there are sounds
that are all new but not new
each siren a grim familiar chorus
each distant shout echoing
a thousand others heard before
each thousand thousand sounds a looping track
played back randomly
played back frequently enough for familiarity
so that each sound resonates comfortably
like you’ve heard them before
just not quite like this
the light is never the same
tonight low clouds dance the moon
revealing glimpses of white mystery
behind gray scarves fanned like marilyn
luminescent overcast makes cameos of twisted limbs
and mosscaught raindrops glow like mithril in moonlight
as shadows shift into almost
wearing sheer nothings that you can never quite see through
David Trudel © 2013
Photo by the author