Some thought you traded transcendence for the unadorned insight of the street, but for you the moment was evanescent, always a strike away and you watched for it, another said, like a bird of prey, like watching for lost friends and death itself.
Even your delight was uneasy, and your affections could glint like the knife’s edge you traced on your lunch hour walks, to swim your everywhere nowhere self in the drama of its lack where in a crowd of windows even what is––
a step away
was only ever
Inspired by this morning’s time with the work of Frank O’Hara.