You see it leaning on a streelamp, sometime
after midnight, its body a few years younger, back
before you let your stomach go. It smiles
and waves two fingers pressed close
together. Somewhere a car screeches its tires,
another one blaring its horn. There is no one else
but you, two, a city at night. It lights a cigarette
like a spy, flame painting its face: a yellow
spotlight. You see the ring on its finger, the one
you’ve kept in a drawer, even though it means nothing
now. As you near it kisses the air, blows a smoke-
ring, its breath mixing with yours. When you walk by,
it follows. The only sound: your foosteps, the click
of your heels, a faint echo. Each time you slow it slows
down, keeping in synch. You know if you turn
it will be waiting, two arms outstretched. You keep
moving forward, past empty shops, windows where
your reflection keeps its pace, body hunched
into itself, chin to chest from the cold. The glass
shivers like a pool of water, a clear pond where you
could lose yourself forever. Some versions of you
are taller, some shorter, each one as real
as you were or ever will be.


Contents

 Felix

 Jung