January 11

In all this fog
-heightened silence

ears strain
for a sudden noise,

the streets
exaggeratedly

empty, the shut up
glow of houses

so inaccessible,
no one will ever

walk these streets
again, except

there, under
a lampost’s sharp

cone, a figure,
attached to a dog,

or drowning
in place,

I’ll never know,
the white night

swallows it up
before I reach

that block,
and our floating

paths don’t
cross again.