The shapes, the colors.
I was watching as you turned your attention.
And then the wind blows its breath.
The light catches the face of a card
hanging from a wire bent just so.
A face.
It’s just a cutout cardboard image –
a reproduction of a painting –
a portrait of a woman reading.
She’s not looking at me.
She wasn’t looking at the artist
when he was painting her a hundred years ago.
Maybe it was longer.
Her eyes turned down.
You turned your attention.
I couldn’t see behind your eyes.
A shape, a color.
What thoughts dance between us?
Cardboard cards dance in the wind,
the light catches your face.
The woman reading on the postcards,
cut out in rectangles
without one fluttering an eyelash.
An eyelash catches my attention.
A shadow on the wall or one lightly on your cheek.
And then I turn towards you for a moment.
That’s all it was ever going to be.
There were colors.
Shapes.
You turned between the counters in the afternoon.
That you saw me once in a hundred years
will have to be enough.
I might remember that your hair
was pulled back in a braid just so.
I drank iced tea.
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