#77

Four o'clock sun sets. Finish.

What Baudelaire wrote somewhere of glass perspectives. Matt types, "High rise. Raid the bar. Together." A week apart. But their eyes, in the mirror, always sought his frame. The gray to my black and white. Readiness to my reflection. Seconds passing for the quieter smile. And Blake, who stood before him. Ricky and Kenny and Shera early: double syllables each, the final softer, silent. Signal winter changes. Let them go with a turn of the lock. The windows draped in paper brown, opaque.

Five o'clock twilight. Begin.

An open hand. A transfer of words to the Library. David says, "Let me ask you a question." Clean. Holidays on holidays, and more. The streets, white-lit with errands to pursue. Laundered shirts and shower curtains. Trash bags for what's passed. And signs: "FREE STUFF" for the parting. Miguel and Michael serve coffee over cards. Kendra, Denny: a couplet still. Chapstick. Trust the trips breath takes for breath. Brandon, as he sits, well-travelled, likewise. Or for eyes, one stands exposed. Candidly. Ask.