White Man, Red Hand

In the many little instances, the minutes the
hours the seconds between here and now
I walk…across this grey and amazing city
across the idea that we are here, and here
and here but always moving always an
instantaneous apparition a ghost between
the solid and the real

I touch your face with waiting fingers, with
simple silence I watch the traced lines
across your skin across the street I see
the light change—white man now—to red
hand then and in that flicker, that small
moment of hovering sadness, I am nowhere
but the place I can be

White man, red hand…tell me when to stop
and go…there is too much of nothing, now,
between us and the path, clouded obstructed
dim and uninviting but not impassable yet,
not washed away by pounding tides by
inexorable wind and the beating pressure of
tomorrow’s thirst and hunger

Reconciling this moment against the timed
absence of knowing, I am wilted and folded;
my emotions, the scent of my distrust pervading
I watch and take myself too seriously yet once
again…adding a little more nothing to the
already full space around me, my fingers trace
lines on a face all but gone away

I said goodbye with these fingers, with the
tracing of the words I sealed the moment,
captured that instant when ghost became
real, became solid became the idea that what
was will not ever be…and like the stop and go
across intersections, I am merely waiting now
for the white man

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