Wet Cobblestones Sincerity
The long skirt, a sudden spill of cream,
drags through a puddle of reflected gold.
Mimosa flares, a sincere, useless sun.
Two shadows walk into the painted light,
their shoulders squared against the brush strokes
of the absolute and pouring present.
The third man waits, a fixed, forgotten shape.
I know their names, yet only see the slick
materiality of black umbrellas,
and the sweet ache of almost feeling.
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