the backward waltz

This morning there’s nothing but questions. Standing on the corner, a guy walks by, a Saturday-morning-rumpled guy, with a board game under his arm but I can’t see the title.

Then night and I feel bigger. The sky a wide collection of stars blinking truth by truth, the trees billowing the wind, birds fighting in the branches. People walking quietly in the dark.

I’m happy with this. If this is what I get. Picasso warm-butter nights and days of pieces and places. It's a backwards waltz, but I can show you the steps.