The Places We Know Best

by Avery R. Wellman

​

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.