She waits where I’ve always stood
in all the ruin of 2 a.m..
where lawn meets street
in a concrete sweep
poured down to draw all the water away.
But this isn’t what nighttime should be,
or memory, or the unmapped expanse of newness,
this halting unexpression,
vowel streams rolling back until
they’ve never been said.
I’d like to return to the moment
before we moved from the couch
to the end of the drive, before we met
the end of the evening. And I’d like to know
she isn’t standing there, beside a culvert of her own.