Tuesday, October 9, 2007


At twilight the city is most beautiful, the blue of the streets, the cabs, the girls. He thought of her once, home, naked on the couch, with someone and not, and then he stepped off the curb, the splash of people, brushing of arms.

1 comment:

Chris said...

Hey Joe - this one grabbed me, especially, because it felt like a poem. Poems are often built on what something or someone isn't, which always fascinates me. When you have what something isn't, you have the absence, as well as the presence of the thing or place or event itself. 'Not' is a very useful word in poetry. It turns things into shadows.