Shangyang Fang

Almost Hour

Late night, but not too late for the father
to smash the plates. For his wife, made visible
by her nakedness. Sleepless is the neighbor boy
lighting a cigarette. It is now the half-lit hour,
hour of almostness. A cyclist passes by,
crushes the roadside lilies into spilled milk.
The streets are made marigold, damped
with lamps. The world is suddenly autumn.
Like a stranger in a long lost photograph
I stand the correct distance from the present.