I come down to the place where skyscrapers decorate both
sides of a river down which cruise ships sail, at a time of day when the sun glistens
on the windows like sparks or fire, a moment too short to last as much the way
love sometimes is, a suggestion of something grant that always later
disappoints, sunset always an illusion that always leads into night, and while
I prefer dawn, I can rarely come there to see it, and so must accept this brief
glimpse of an unfiltered promise, and then the deep dark that much come after,
the sparks on the windows, the end of the day, the parade of steel; and glass,
and, of course, the illusion of love.
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