You come here to find suns
sweeping tree-speckled boulevards
& tall cream buildings, trapezoids
sliced toward angled light,
rear halves erased,
black balconies netting their faces—
like pale pretty widows
at a sunlit funeral.
You stalk shop windows,
a mirrored face you do not recognize
in a thin spring chill,
in the isolating foreign.
At the café that once
appeared in a ’90s film:
the cigarette-dazed clatter
of dishes & post-hipster waiters
& faces you’ve sometimes known
on simple nights around simple tables—
artless, luminous faces
moving like smoke blooms,
capturing you as you are—
thin & transient & not going home.