Light floods in the shallow brick square,
brigand tumults in lens flare opulence;
finer jewels, finer shades of longing,
could never be bought, at these
city bus benches and Sally Ann shopfronts.
Glasses chipper in window tinting,
striking but for your difference apparent;
you flutter, errant updraft catching feather,
I ponder, surveying shipknots' tempest.
With the softest chime you mentioned muddy waters but
they were clear as glacial springs to me.
I say something scratched, panicked
headlight trauma the core of it;
tries to give warmth, wriggles
dying under lens watch, evaporates.
I say a clattering cliché truth,
winding pattern, wind-like totemic
to pretensions past, making sacred cross
of Popsicle glue, of corkboard pins.
I say to spit an edged shard,
rendered reflective past marches
with fire-print intensifies, petty cruelties
settled as prefab foundations, dug-in.
But unsaid is something in haze-mist,
of spun umbrella, in crackles of
windows open to late spring's dewy breeze
and you, the roses and sill lilies,
the somethings I beat in chest for.