by Gary L. McDowell

I knew a girl who closed her eyes
every time she heard a car horn,

drew koi on the knees of her jeans,
knew what it meant to be anonymous

in a crowd, and now I close my eyes,
step into the street—a reflection of the people

who’ve walked here before me—and know
that koi—a homophone

for love—can live two-hundred years,
but I can’t manage long without a window,

the patterns of streets and corners
when every city has its perfect hour:

moment before the light changes, moment we don’t
know ourselves from those orange or white

or blue fish: the sorrow we feel over traffic.
The shadows when we clench our eyes match

our ground-shadows pushing forward home.

*This piece may not be archived, reproduced or distributed further without the author’s express permission.