the stars, with their own brilliant afterglow
do a double-take

while I, in desperation, push myself farther
and walk past the dead spot of that river
wondering how rushing water can sound like silence
even in the dead of night.

it isn’t a matter of shading
or of grays and blues and fuchsias
painted by number across the finished sky

at this hour
all the street lights look the same, anyway.

maybe any random set of fingers
peeking through the hem of a too-big overcoat
would have sufficed.

it really is all relative, after all.