AGHA SHAHID ALI
The dark scissors of his legs
cut the moon's
raw silk, highways of wind
torn into lanes, his feet
pushing down the shadow
whose patterns he becomes
while trucks, one by one,
pass him by,
headlights pouring
from his face, his eyes
cracked as the Hudson
wraps street lamps
in its rippled blue shells,
the summer's thin, thin veins
bursting with dawn,
he, now suddenly free,
from the air, from himself,
his heart beating far, far
behind him.
