10 AM on Market Street
Fog lingers longer these mornings, filling
the grid’s vacancies, keeping street-
Walking to the bus stop, you feel your categories
close in, encircle, when what you want
is their convergence.
You cross, on the way, numerous sheepdogs
chasing singularities into herds.
Bus lines, coffee refills,
toll booths dinging attendant-absented,
though you admittedly prefer this
Downtown’s rife with tactile loss: no pocket cash,
no receipts, no recipient. Everything’s
brought to touch
within the cloud, and the cloud obliviates
accidental touching. There’s air
trapped in the double-
paned curtain walls & in its shifting shadow-box,
some grey mornings, you glimpse your I —
a ghost margin traced along
your body’s passing. Where, then, but
into the proliferating mirrors to go?
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