Friday, March 27, 2015

SUPERIMPOSITION

Walking looking
so pale under arches— 
cold and long past

window after 
window—I notice I've
become the silent

witness—to 
my own 
translucent 

reflection gradually 
beginning to brighten and 
fill-in again;

not through its 
participation—but more 
surely through being 

imbued—
with each passing 
streak of of their 

variously 
orange and 
yellowish faces—

each one of them 
hunkered-
down low in a tall booth—and each one

of them hunched 
so wonderfully
warm and greedy—over its own

furiously
red-
napkin blotted 

tray 
of solid- 
golden food.

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