Julian 

I sit after all the walks

and think about the blossom of my lungs,

watch a wind move

stretched leaves to my neighbor’s

porch like they do every evening: russet and bending. 

We pass in the afternoons,

full and exact like these leaves.

He, a tall stranger slipping

a cigarette from licked lips, and I

like Julian of Norwich

and her blessed disease,

purged by God’s mercy. 

If I, on my deathbed like she—

cloaked in the dark of corners—

slipped fast like blood

she saw from a crown,  

my wish looked over

like the glance of my neighbor,

I would ask again for one more walk.

Perhaps the walk on yesterday’s thin concrete:

a short nod, the step backwards.