I stood absolutely still and though I did not intend it,
My body and everything inside it stood alone against the evening;
Though I told myself such thoughts were childish.

It seemed that without warning, the sky had up and run
Leaving in its place a concrete dome;
Glaring, impenetrable,
But not necessarily foreboding.

The lights (everywhere!) put their masterpiece up for auction.
That intersection;
Light on pavement on cold, hard ground.
And I could not bring myself to make a bid.

The sky let go of bits and pieces of itself conceived
Far, far, far from where I stood.
Kinetic, they gave the night a motion,
One I never was perceptive enough to notice
But would surely take for granted if I did.

"Art is always and everywhere the secret confession, and at the same time the immortal movement of its time."

I thought this was great. Not a lot is going on here, happenings-wise, but you captured a moment in time and built an atmosphere and mood of resignation, emptiness, and semi-ambivalence which that sharp last thought drives home.

I also read your vulture piece and really enjoyed it. I'll try looking out for more of your stuff in the future
here, My Dear, here it is