Someone who looks just like you
steps in and out of the world
in shop windows — you
a smooth moment, flashing sign,
brick wall, you, an alley — and then
your feet are rustling through a thick poem.
A few syllables stick to your socks.
You were headed for the river
but a wild sound has found you. Something
like a blue chalk loon
calls you in, behind the glass, and you are one
not quite alone among the constant, quiet throng
that lives along these shelves
and in the close, closed darkness, hums.
Who would want to leave
a mystic's quarter-smile beginning
where the ceiling ends
or begins? But you will. You have to make room.
And when you do, those syllables will let go
along the way and a blue lake
will sprout lap by lap. Passersby
will see, in the surface that covers
thoughtful swirls of wing and reed, a glistening
someone, like you, just looking.