Like an equatorial summer’s day,
the air rises, visible, a cellophane apparition
screening the houses that encrust
the distant hills as if barnacles.
He stands, framing this vista
with his torso, white, like the margins
of a Polaroid, nary a scribble on it,
no record of when’s and where’s
nor any maudlin remarks, stark,
like my quietness, and the man in it.
He is transparent.
* title taken from Frank O’ Hara’s In Memory of My Feelings