He sat, half-bent in a pool of grey fabric
Watching the swim and flicker of people.
The tide of sound pulsed against his ears
And he felt the wingbeats of pigeons,
Saw the wet mouths of sighing children
And the panting of cars like beasts.
The inverted city glimmered in grey.
He ruptured the illusion – gently –
And tasted the gutter rain.
The spears of her shoes toed the stream
And her face was the child’s
Discovering the edge of the sea.
He scrubbed the bristles on his chin.
“Sylvia is beautiful. Her eyes are just like your mother’s.”
The lights of her vision fell
To the tensing ropes of his hand.
“She remembers you.”
The carnal breath of taxis
Moistened the air.
“She doesn’t remember you like this.”
She swept a bundle of black silk thread
Behind her ear, her hand an artist’s:
Noble marble. Warmed.
“It wasn’t Grace’s fault. It wasn’t because you’d worked late. Again.”
He thrilled at
“It’s no one’s fault when infants die.”
He coiled himself, he gripped his mind
In scaled armor.
A wavering, the image disturbed in water
The dimpled weight of a tiny hand.
She smiled –
The woman tilted her gaze
At the growl of the 905 –
One block south, right
The man beside her folded and dined
Upon the images of memories rising in a boil.
His world melted into oil paints of swelling light.
And he took her hand.
“Let’s take a walk.”