Steam writes French on windows
a saxophone replies;
sugar clings to morning
art drips from the skies
Painters stir their weather
on palettes full of leaves;
we sip a slow apology
for everything that grieves
You fold the napkin northward
origami of return;
I underline our silence—
what matters doesn’t burn
Outside the alleys rustle
a novel changes scene;
we exit through a season
and enter what we mean