Seen by the Woods

Who you are, I don’t know.

No one does.

I’ve seen you—

on the road by the woods,

on the meadow near the hill.

Without strength,

I still move toward you,

closer, and closer still,

until I pass through you.

It feels solemn,

like a Bach chorale,

or the neighbor’s drill

when evening folds over the block

and their wardrobe comes apart.

Who you are, I don’t know.

No one does.

I’ve seen you—

on the road by the woods,

on the meadow near the hill,

at the liquor shop across the street.