In the soft light of the streetlamp

In the soft light of the streetlamp
which holds a magic it has retained since
the first night

when in that amber light
I beheld your face for
the first time

I stand where no one knows me by name,
and no one desires to know me.

Memories are carried into the darkness

by the smoke of the cigarette that tilts
between my fingers at a 90° angle of elegant mathematics.

Frosted fingers, yes, and the temperature
is negative, yes, or zero,

but it will never be so cold
or cold enough

to keep me from traveling to that place,
where you’ll never again wait for me

under the soft light.

OR

On my corner
the amber of light
from the streetlamp

solid as desire:
the first night I saw you
under it.

I stand beneath the concrete sky—
no one desires to know me there.

Frosted fingers, yes, and the temperature
is negative, yes, or zero:

new thoughts carried into the light
by the smoke from the cigarette that tilts

between my fingers at a 90-degree angle:
nothing is so elegant as its mathematics.

Light travels
the speed of desire
to the corner

where you’ll
never again wait for me
in its soft amber tent.