Not seeing me, not even looking,
K. on her silver cruiser charms her way
through the last long moment
of the changing light:
snow boots and a Seychelles Warbler’s
old blue tights,
a rolled-up yoga mat in her basket
wobbling like a wild tiller as she pedals.
It feels illicit and somewhat right
to stand across the intersection
her name, or even waving.
According to the internet
tutorial, the fact that photons
turn into tiny loyal billiard balls
as soon as we start watching suggests
no error of method
or measurement, but rather,
as far as anyone can tell,
an invisibly unstable world,
a shaking everywhere
that seeing must pin down and fix.
So, that morning I stumbled on you
out, alone, bending through
the traffic at Orange and Edwards Streets:
a someone else then
whom I, alone,
can never otherwise see —
there has to be a kind of speech
beyond naming, or even praise,
that locates light and lets it go.