She walks deserted streets. Not the real
you, but one
she’s been fabricating 

with rope, leftover images
from an old black-and-white
film. She believes in 

rewind, fast forward,
long pauses. The sun
reveals gray 

in all its shades—romance
along a wave length,
a particle spinning 

and at rest. 

She has no way
of knowing where you are,
what you might be 

doing in this moment.
Only hopes
you’re in it, 

touching something
more real than this
creation that dissolves 

under the light.