A moving picture in a window frame:
oil rainbows, gray cumulus smoke,
phone tower silhouettes, my ghostly face
superimposed on the roadside factories.
I am unmirrored by black soot, and try
to scrape it off with the blade of my hand before
remembering I cannot penetrate
thick glass. It is like touching a stranger’s hand
by accident, transmitting ink, dust, swine flu
and through a glance, a gesture, the practiced posture
of not needing, indifference. I wipe off my hand,
turn back and watch the city compress behind me.
