the pavement all wet

and as dirty as frogs. the water,

a mirror, just showing

imperfection. the way

that it lands and the way

that it speckles the surface –

the way it bends light

and betrays the wild rough. and rain

is not falling – no;

rain has fallen. pigeons pick up

the dropped filters of cigarettes,

shedding their brown

paper sleeves. someone in a doorway

and the shadow of a doorway

taking shelter from nothing,

but shelter nonetheless.

he is safe, he is standing,

one hand in a pocket. it's evening,

he inhales, and his face

is lit up.