(he was not a bird taking suddenly off
from a high church window --

(nor a colt, tossing his head to reveal
a startling eye --

(he was just a man, a man in a suit,
walking and swinging a small leather case --)

He raises his head like a man
who raises his head for all time, as careless
as Luck...and he is all mine: he
hesitates, just long enough
for perfection -- his coat flying lightly
behind, he crosses

bright pavement: the red lights allow him,
everything allows him: his rhythm
sustains me -- baroque, unrepeatable,
a strange proclamation --

nothing can touch him

The men on construction
fall silent: they watch me,
watching the man in the suit
as he shimmers away -- walking charmed
and inevitable, outside our dimension

shrinking and moving, ebbing farther away,
he tosses his case, easy and light

up into bright, cluttered air.

© 1982, Carin Perron