ever in the shifting
orange-ish evening light—
and framed by drifting
chalk moon sky and glistening
gritty parking lot—I totter
and resort, like a
jerk, to the only
game I'm sure I can master:
to gaze yet again
upon her cagily—
as if she were ever
a piece of my
chintzy property, as if
she could still yet be
some practicable
magic eye poster—now
and then, a person
emerging; but more often
popping—pure
personality.
