On Day and Night

And as the neighbors' guests retire, coaxing their carsinto the snow (we're gazing through the curtaininto winter's pale hub) two girls gaze up. They're allgoing home, like wheels correctinginto steering hands, or drawn breath returning to the air,but you can't come back to anywhere—there's no perfect hereand there, or now and then—but here we are,again. A silverfish crosses the windowpane. We peerinto the street, and up at the stranded moon: White wheel,black field. Black winter, white road. White silence,black wind. White cars, black wires.