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The night is liquid
silk, streaming west as
the moon croons.

Overhead the boxcars
rattle, and bear unknown cargo
through the downtown glitter,
then far beyond.
From the other shore
cypresses wave their farewells.

For a moment
we are a leaf, floating
perpendicular
against dark currents.

.

Yet the river
insists

and so we
tilt, falling back
into its flow.
We were measured
by the rising arc of the moon,
you and I, but
we are out of time.