The Processioners

(rough draft)

I wake suddenly, the porter
of dreams waking me with his
tremolo before the last stop.

Empty dim lit
station.

Waking down a dark hallway,
I absent mindedly reach for the light
that is not there.

And who is waiting for this
young day lighter than an insect?
The empty streets?

Those dressed in snow
with their anticipation
for the wedding processioners

emerging like Lazarus
from the church that shelters the moon?
Or is it the lonely stop lights going

through their cycles for all the fading
stars lined up single file going West.
Or is this morning only for a certain

postman, that wanders from house
to house like a second hand angel
delivering letters from distant

cousins; unremarkable and long dead,
now given new consideration
because the curious stamps

and their unique return a addresses?
And what do I want from this day?
An expanding blue stillness

fogs my windows. I open
the door and lift the worn
collar of my coat. Walk out

into the falling snow that falls
like so many questions from curious
children’s eyes.

When I walk I leave no footprints

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