there's a girl with a skirt

down at Aimee's

puffy tartan

blue and green

frames her beauty,

it's enough that

she works and

talks and smiles.

i relented

thanking her

on the way out,

it's better that way,

maybe.

there's a garden

between 10th and 11th,

lays with closed eyes

bathing in sun

between brick shoulders

wrought-iron rods

hold her safe

like a hand cups

a butterfly.

i've had no excuse

to slip behind

the fence and

sit in the green,

yet.

then there's night-

when boxes of

golden luminosity

grace the street,

flush with cold

dark stone and brick,

the wares inside

are weary

nonetheless.

i stopped wishing

i could have all,

or read every book

about three months ago,

but glass hinders

presence or response

anyway.