In Between the Places Where Night Falls
to the elder with a brown leather bag
though every hint of mountains will stay muted tonight
thank you for the glance
presumed this as beginning of home yet
how irritable I must’ve seemed in that rain
waiting at Richards and Pender? the crosswalk
next time I must return your posture
between the turquoise drapery tied in knots
matching wooden bunk bed, lockers, Van Gogh
the corner where a sink was
spirits in 213?
the clinging on mast early invitation for warm
Granville Island then bridge retraced all the way from 13th street
she, the runner, into side of False Creek imparting audience
over the Pacific Orion’s belt
Bruce Springsteen is depriving me even more of you
cappuccino with sugar alters by comforting
if I were to drive before the frothy bottom
Highway 1 east to 176 Street, right on 8 Avenue
then Highway 99 south becoming I-5 in Seattle
the choosing of sift into any possible atom that fathers third to last evening
somewhere between railroad tracks and the inlet
Jason removes a tripod from his wheelchair
allow the city minutes to pose until flash and focus take
never a witness of skyline after dusk
he learned snapshots in the past week on the web
I’ve had the camera for five years and am told which dials to adjust
the shutter opens
each scene initiates the sour departure
last boat, 12:30 am, towards Five Sails
exit 164 I-90 east for 823 miles
changes to I-94, then left on I-694
hours following the shapeshift continued
trees five centuries in age
maps provided, leaves became larger, white flowers from dark, impossible swamps
inching closer to the end of slick cliffs
before summoned by fog, by islands in the sound
eventually southward on muddied trail to military barracks, boarded
collecting remnants from the chimney, walls, roll after roll of film
the suitable conclusion of a lighthouse
a heart inked around our names
the 58B ramp for again I-94 east to Madison
248 miles, till it switches to I-90, 136 miles
a silhouette in the smeared window of Danny’s Inn, seldom in motion like prayer
as for the gentleman with needle plunged into thigh on Hastings
others sprawling the corners from here to Chinatown
the market of umbrellas and kimonos well after closing
strolling Robson, steps of the art gallery, to encircle custom
filthy jeans, the fleshy scar from hiking
unbeknownst to being reacquainted
left on your street exit 45A
to close 2,199 miles where it began for us
Joris Soeding's third and fourth chapbooks are forthcoming from Lummox Press and Myth Ink Books. His writing has recently appeared in publications such as HEART, Hobo Camp Review, and Into the Teeth of the Wind. He is a 5th/6th grade Writing teacher in Chicago, where he resides with his wife, son, and daughter.