Three Takes on an Evening

It was an evening of prominent lights
or lights noticed in a variety of places:
the ghostly footlights of the garden
the delicate tea lights of the bridge
and the dropped cigarette, burning
orange at the end and rolling down
toward the curb of Roebling Street.

On an early warmish April evening
it felt as if the temperature of the air
matched precisely the temperature
of my skin; I walked with my arms
hung at my sides, swaying in rhythm
to my sure footsteps while I noticed.

I was walking home on Bedford Avenue from dinner with Brendan and Tsam, and I was walking up Bedford Avenue, and I passed a little community garden that had these footlights along a path — and they were a very ghostly blue-white, with almost kind of a mist around them.  I stopped, or slowed, for a moment to look at them, but I quickly sped on homeward.