– For Michael Veve

Night comes on, loch-deep

and still, and the street’s lamp-

light is muted by mists of low-

land grey that have taken the

angel’s share of luster and left

a dim plume of halo encircling

us while somewhere, just with-

in earshot, I can hear tiny lances

of ice pelting earth and I find

myself thinking that even if I

wanted to expel my sorrows

they would surely find a safe

harbor here within the musty

closes of mottled stone that

lead to abrupt alleys and sun-

less streets and happily rise

up like a chorus, easily over-

whelming the heart, leaving

me slump-shouldered and dum-

fungled, resigned to darkness

and clumsily trying to forgive

myself and walk back time.