We begin. Floating through the streets
Beneath the fake blues of spring skies,
Plans unfold, shaking out their aches
And shakiness, blooming into the first
Hugs of the season, bad for the lungs,
Imperative for the soul. A badge pokes
Her collarbone. Under other conditions
She would poke back, but unexpected
Connection is the purpose, or one of
The purposes, and things certainly
Could have gone much further
South, for sure. Night settles
In misty increments, dying
Light gives way to hazy
Indigo. The sun slips
Through a crack in
A wall of windows,
Not looking back at
The unfolding scene,
Taking the long way
Around, sizzling and
Sighing, there is nothing
It has not seen in its time.