After Hours

By Erin Wilson

It’s two a.m. I’m standing on an otherwise deserted street,
socks well used and falling loose at my ankles. What might it look like,
a middle-aged woman with her hands pressed to the glass of a dirty window?
I’m thinking about the moon and how each ocean wave cradles the orb.
Might we be afraid of immanence for fear of being proved wrong?
Two a.m. on an otherwise deserted street, a junk shop at my fingertips.
Prove immanence wrong then! I will yet be drunk on something.

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