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Listen to Cate Marvin reading this poem.


He's light warbled through the distorted
glass of a window, the shimmery stalk
of lamp stand I view as I stand in ten below
with a cigarette and a thought of him, light

warbling like that, so the eye cannot rest,
jaw fluid and eyes dark-heavy, amove and alive
as if his blood won't rest, so I take it in
and puff out mouthfuls of ice-air, with

a thought of him, some dime-store story,
real enough to make me laugh, strange enough
to make me quake just after he's left, so I
kiss my desk, I kiss my hand at thinking

of him: some rough-headed, sharp-eyed man,
a gentleman carrying an old lady's bag off
the bus, her nodding thanks to him. Hips
could be made out beneath the wrinkle

of clothes; his midriff was, for a moment,
exposed when he reached for her luggage.
And when we disembarked, his cupped
hands flowered a flame for my cigarette.

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