Just out of Sight
You were stroked by every mirror you walked past;
invisible hands reached out to caress your shadow
but were always too late to touch the hem of beauty.
There was always something just out of sight, lost
to peripheral vision, never quick enough to catch
a visitant who possessed the answers to questions
we struggled even to formulate. Questions that
followed us, like a lame but faithful dog, pausing
only to sniff at possible solutions deposited by others.
There was something pagan in your walk, comfortable
with the earth beneath and the sky above, even when
it’s clothed in tarmac or obscured by obelisks of power.
Shop windows and the slick bodywork of automobiles
stared back at you in disbelief, unable to blink or turn
away. But these reflections always had nothing to say.
Were you a mirage of desire everyone could see but
could grasp? Your limbs returned everyone’s fantasies with
interest but the capital sum of your self remained
Crossing roads, against the light, the traffic bowed down
before you, temporarily frozen and forgetting any sense
of destination. Zebras cherished the touch of your foot.
The city opened its doors like so many arms making
gestures of welcome. The excited apertures of camera
phones expanded but you were always just out of focus.