White Jacket
You stand before wrought-iron fence that separates the path from water. I transpose my fixed stare to a proxy shadow brought on by tree limbs not in evidence. What people far from here call "fine" weather prevails across the sky you almost occupy. I can be near you, the crisp, carefully cleaned jacket you've protected to appear a gift just opened. Your eyes authorize informal beauty, and I limber my musicianship to speak in wordless animation toward the spirit you surround. I have inferred freedom of motion, despite your stance, to answer the inquiring lens. How open is the circumstance of capturing attention, and does mine merely derive from how you look outward? Insistence is driven affection. A low-key pause in speaking, also. If I close my eyes, I savor how this picture works beyond its occupation. Mind extends embodiment past allotted time. I cradle what I know, I speak latchkey attachment. Say you know the second half of all my lines. Suppose you speak them. Perhaps I simply wait for how you are, and where you live. The quiet water still not flowing.
Slightly wrinkled chinos, dark gloves, focus, a photographer
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