#92

Sarah's painting on its little easel. She finds, amidst the city's worn geometry, her natural subjects. And I find mine, though their forms are at times too solid and their speech in too large a space projected. "You write like this," says Square, "because you've been reading Lawrence." His hands are softer, steady, and thrust in pockets as he walks. He has no need of charms or spirits.

Winter-ing. Thin air and the hasty arch of light. I zip my black jacket to my chin. What of the train cars' regular shuffle, the long, low breath of the distant interstate? Had I a man's fair form... I might stand shaving in red, the click of the camera a soft, gentle presence. Or the morning sun through the window in a cross-like pattern, my fingers stuggling with the buttons of a dress shirt.

The wind is its own sad enclave. In February. And David who braves it. Dress him in specks of snow, and lead him to the city gates. Fill his hands and eyes with expectations, great and pocket-size.