Night Lights.

Tonight I make a pier out of 
light from street lamps.
I walk. 
I think about asphalt.
Soil sublimates after it rains.
I steep like mint tea. 
Everything reminds me of nostalgia
but not of a specific memory
and the concrete is blotchy
like broken blood vessels
on the insides of my forearms.
I feel guilty for letting myself feel alone.
There is something indulgent about
building a pier from street lamps.
I've taken myself on a dinner date--
round-belly candles on the arms
of a wood bench who wishes
I was another pair of lovers
writing promises on each other's 
skin with their fingers-- outlining
their decades with the curt
tips of their nails.
Kissing-- like wax seals on the envelopes
of credit card offers.
No I am not in love-- I am inseparable.
I am benches. I am backbones.
I am soil that fills the tea cup
and still grows a street light--
I took a walk with the parts of
myself that I wear in broken blood vessels.
Check them like wrist watches
that never had any batteries--
I'm not thinking about the edges of piers
but sometimes the soil feels
like summer there. And there was always
something about the summer to me--
and the waves rolled from the
tires of sleep-saunter cars
in the street-- filled my tea cup
in the bay and turned out
the street lamps
with a draw string.