the window

reflects faint skin,

i see through his face.

near one pupil

a streetlamp tint

and sparse sleet.


i like him.

he and i unlikely to snitch.

down alone together.

“it’s selfish,” we say to each other.


vainglorious leaps.


we wait in lines,

our place in the queue.

stiles of babbittry.

we observe and concur--


if judgement were an arrow,

one of us would be spectral,

unhittable--


far greater and less real

than the other’s fate.