An Interlude

In March winds oscillate toward thaws:
pulling curtains outside of windows:
eyelids rising and dropping,
careful gusts catch

fallen lashes
touching circles to street puddles of frost.
You lift the window curtain
and calmly suspending yourself,
lean over the fire escape.

The alley

shelters sky-sections
that walk path-stone rooftops,
tarp-lift for the sun,
hushes avenue audiences murmuring
above passing subway trains.

"I wish we were higher up."
I nodded, "I'd like the quiet too."

On Thirteenth and Sixth the streetlamps linger,
keeping lit long into the morning. Fire-
escapes gleaning such glares
lean over the playhouse.

"I like the noise from down there- isn't it
romantic to live ontop a theater?"
"Why be higher?"
"We would catch more light."
"And I could stand below the fire-escape
and call you the sun."

You raise the corners of your lips
turned downward almost
into a smile.

I step through the window,
"Is it over?"
"It's intermission."

Inside the actors osculate,
change,
and watch quietly the dark
back of the curtain.