Signs

I never learned to trust the signs they sell—
The ones that promise where a life will bend.
I know the kind that hesitate as well:
A world that almost reaches for a friend.

A window keeps the warmth of someone gone.
Rain darkens only half an empty chair.
A crow lifts off before the light is on,
Leaving the branch still leaning toward the air.

The stars are late arrivals to our eyes.
They know nothing of tomorrow’s name.
We borrow them because the darkness tries
To leave no witness where we burn the same.

Someone ahead slows down without a cause.
Two strangers match their footsteps for a street.
Nothing has happened. Still, the silence draws
A shape that neither one of them can meet.

Perhaps a sign is only this: the place
Where separate hours briefly overlap;
Like two wet sleeves that touch inside a train
Before they dry into themselves again.

So I no longer ask what waits ahead.
I watch what lingers after people move:
The dent a shoulder leaves against a wall,
The warmth that stays inside an emptied glove.