She suggested walking at night
when the sky was relatively clear.
There you’d find poetry, scraps
tucked into moments – an ocean
of yellowed nightlights defying
an absent sun. There’d be more
luck there than in off-white rooms
all filled with glowing screens
and things too like life.
you could work with nights like this
where the memories are blurred
and the rain is underwhelming
and you miss midafternoon coffee.
there’s a dosage you remember
that dealt with nights like this,
but they were all long ago
dead in different / same problems,
now her face is blurred
her fingertips are waxy,
waned with all the words
I’ve stuttered through since.