Brian Dang
A long gray pole beams out a yellow light.
A pole beams out a light.
It beams out a light.
A light exists.
A light.
It blinks in the dark once.
It blinks in the dark.
It’s bright against the dark.
It’s in the dark.
A yellow halo encapsulated the darkened pavement.
A halo is disturbed on the sidewalk as bodies weave through it.
It emanates warmth as the moon leaves.
It buzzes slightly.
(my mother
sends me pictures
of her sky
and I send her back
these images of a streetlight
and she tells me that it feels
as if I had never gone)
In the blend of the nighttime cloak, wrapping itself
with hidden 
presiding over the
moon
a stalwart pillar of
beaming,
glittering,
shining, persists over the
cracked ea r th, illuminating
tiny
rocks that sit snug sunken into the
ground.
When the moon comes again, it
can’t compare.
About the Writer
Brian is a writer of prose and poetry dealing with all manners of the everyday filtered through words trying to leave the page.
Editor: Sun
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