Parking lot

The garage, a shed, the outside of an apartment building, came
flushed with light from passing
cars—drunk, emotional—then black, private, eyes shutting
I lay in my car with the seat down, listening
to the end of Nina Simone’s meditation, “What is time, and where
does it go, most of all,
is it alive?” her voice sorrowfully laughing, baby, this is who you are
distorted piano and drums booming the blue
light against windows. Headlights crested
the buildings then passed
and darkness lay—the light spoke yes there is time, the dark spoke no
there is eternity

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