It’s a lightpole at a city crosswalk. Over the grit, someone has scrawled with a black magic marker: JESUS, SAVE MY SOUL. Traffic like cold wind. You lean into it, the way you lean a while later into the chilly fluorescence at your desk. That beetle glimpsed as it vanished into a sidewalk crack — with a start, you realize it lives there. A tremor takes your hand like cicadas grinding up time in the willows. Weren’t there days when horizons, at dawn or at dusk, shone like a Bible’s gilt edge? Then where did these nights come from? Nights you dream of nothing but the crosswalk down-town: how the signal keeps changing — WALK, DON’T WALK — though no one is there to cross and the street itself is empty.