How empty it is out here

on some corners,

even close enough to hear the others’

intermittent heaving.

 

And funnier still since these are

not the holding corners, not the kind 

to fill, or to be full, or not, these are instead

the kind that juts.

 

Midnight, like emptiness, is arbitrary

but we need, we need

the thing between two things

for definition, like side-light on a dancer.

 

Funny,

like not watching the big game:

The sudden bruhahas, then silences;

Roof-garden roman candles, and the spitting rain.