Katie Bowler Young: Twilight Walks

Through crowds and parks, past homes and shops,
across crosswalks, uphill, our quiet slipping
into conversation: which way now, our pasts,
what didn’t last: his son’s car, my first marriage,

and then through the narrow gate of a school,
where, near a fountain’s pool, there’s a mural
of a man, his open hands, with a woman, wide-eyed,
birds at her side and in her hair. I like our search

for a particular view, his gestures toward places
he once knew. When we reach that spot where
one lone boulder becomes our bench, I want
to memorize—everything. Homes in the valley,

snug and shoulder to shoulder, lights flickering
on, his arms outstretched toward the Andes.


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