The Places We Know Best

The dim light in the night
realigns the way a mind
wants to remember a place.
The street slopes differently now
and the river seems wider.
The ground is wet, but not from a rain,
instead there is a faint dew
that lingers in the darkness
above the sidewalk.
And the air has changed completely,
like the opening of a refrigerator
after the dead sweat heat
of a long and lovely summer day.

The places we know best are the ones
that stay always like a stranger
somehow
and stand in front of us like a hollow tree,
faking at life
but making at something else.
Art? Maybe.
Or
something that none of us
quiet know about
yet.