by Marissa Bell Toffoli.
I walked through the evening.
Followed the dusk to dark in lanes
that line our neighborhood,
where we know so many,
but nothing of what happens
behind the window dressings
of these big old buildings.
Too fast at first.
Had to stop for breath,
settle on my rhythm.
I am a sort of shadow,
as is that oak. Who will notice
the wind in my branches?
We are damned to look back,
to undress what we want.
Who really pays attention
until something demands it?