When you press your
together your hands are a tent
and in this sunlight glow orange.
You can almost not see the bricks
shifting the light like barges
chugging along the canal
or pigeons swooping through the air
into your hands now open
above the plum stains on
the plate remembering the fruit.
Again you press your fingertips
together. You have
a cigarette tucked behind your ear.
You burst out laughing.