Doppler
       

I do not feel much
like the night or the darkness
drearing on the curbside. The red
sweep of angles pressed into the pavement
by the swaying stoplight two bodies
above our heads marks the spots
our sentences fall

off and traipse
into this colder than November
breeze. There is a habit forming on
the peak of our pulse that has everything
to do with who we are standing next
to and when. I say your name
with the creases

in my brow. You
respond only by a quivering
cut quick across your lashes. This
almost whisper runs longways through
our tinted shadows. At this rate
the sun will clip its own
wings not to

interrupt us, not
to set this one perfect splay
of seconds bright between us
anywhere but shallow in starlight. As sure
as something starts here, it also
ends, the cars silencing this
silence we build.

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Copyright © 2019 John A. Nieves All rights reserved
from Sugar House Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission