This is what goes on when nothing else will:

     broken memories stepping lightly.

Fissures in April ice. Photos that come loose

     from an album no one views anymore.

Now the sudden gush of wakefulness—

     insomnia prying open the small hours again.

Take to the streets to see what neon

     has left me. Doesn’t help my slumber return,

but shoves the night fears aside.

      Restive streetlights and pedestrian signals

trigger nothing, save ghosts. A drifter

    shouts the name of some missing soul—

a name that travels enough to echo

     into the newborn limbs of locust trees.