threads of darkness,
weaving voids into tender filaments of light,
tying interstices out of water, reed, and echo.
A viola cries muted sobs
to wring your fur-wrapped heart,
a burning furnace on a childhood night,
thick with crickets,
glimpsing the white arches through windows of brick homes.
the professor reading Sunday’s Times.
All the places you can never get to,
here they are.