On the bus, we catch each other to the point of acknowledgment

then turn away.

The man waits with an unlit cigarette on his lip.

The soft side of his wrist is tattooed

with an ideogram. Silver links of his watchband

slip up to his cuff, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

He seems, like the rain, a shy performer.

Everytime he opens his mouth

things are assumed against him. Anyway,

what story of this is yours?

The angel’s skirt

is simply a flower, Tunica Angeli,

orange-fringe

sister-fire to the brain, dusk sparks

triangulating something, a kind of judgment

as any perseverance is.