Crossing

The window opens upon the world limits nothing now three floors up; no life or death, he looks out at quiet nothing: only wind reports. His long hair lifting through the heat, weft through warp into a moiré;

before his eyes, driving by, she stops. City life is more than sums of streets paved with rain and the gait of grim pedestrians, more than make-up in the rear-view mirror and cell phone blather, though one forgets such things when there is work and child care and thousand small items on the the honey-do list. Her hands twitch; eyes are crusted dry.

These two will never know what they have seen without so much as meeting all the possibilities. No frame reveals the promise of a just look one more time, and hold: each the other’s thought-filled, aimless gaze.