We gain mass as we age,
gathering it against
encroaching space.
The stacker hits as I
turn a corner from work.
On O’Neil you always think
there’s a car pulling up
behind you, because of
lights on your shoulders:
just like you imagine
vampire women, white billows
whisper’d from the edges of
the woods there. The churches
unwind with each heavy step.
We gain on where
we’re walking, as I remember,
a strain’d, jaundic’d
sac, as you say, our moon.
Waterfowl folded
into the eaves of every
empty house.