in the stick count for the songnnwith knowing you’re gonennglancing up at where you livednnwhen you lived herennnni see you suddenly alivennand nearly smilingnni stop and hold my breathnnand watch the way you used to bennnnthe full moon makesnnour faces shinennlike over-ironed polyesternnnnthen disappears behind the cloudsnnand leaves me under empty rowsnnof night windowsnnnnwe could walk to where these streetsnnget pulled togethernnblinking, lined with gravelnnshoulder squared towards an endnnnnwhere the radio resoundsnnfrom doppling trafficnnwhere the power linesnnsteal esses from the hourly newsnnnnde-pluralize our casualtiesnndrown the generals out in staticnnwe turn and watch our city sprawlnnand send us signals in the glownnof night windowsnnnight windowsnnnn(but you’re not coming home againnnand i won’t ever get to say)nnnnremember hownni’m sorry thatnni miss the waynncould wennnnnight windows