The bright building hums:
whine of kettle under foot,
roar of shower in the wall.
Above, a door flaps, closes.
Footsteps fall on the landing
rattle down the stairs.
Where I sit in the kitchen
blinded by a shaft of sun,
I don’t need to see
to recognize the neighbors,
to feel the texture of the hour.
Where the view is unobstructed
the sun setting looks just like
the sun rising
split in two on the curved horizon
balanced on the edge
of the same half-lit, hopeful worlds
the yin and yang once were tears
the dots in each, the pairs of eyes that cried them
now light and dark are twirling cheek to cheek
the sun setting is the sun rising
far away, just out of sight