Hiding in shadow, reaching for light,
finding refuge in the half-lit quiet—
a confession withheld.
Perhaps you, with anchor-heavy eyes,
could steer me through fog thick with neon,
where dreams snag on steel beams
and fray in the wind.
Skyscrapers shoulder the river’s slow pull,
glass ribs catching the last of the sun.
Progress hums beneath the bridges,
while calendar keepers tap their days into screens,
blue light flickering against tired faces.
Wealth stacks itself in upper floors,
windows lit like patient stars,
and somewhere below
a briefcase opens,
papers lifting
then dropping
through air that offers no resistance.
The Truth About Tigers 