the iron lace highlights a corner of the edifice
catches a moonbeam, reflecting into the masked eyes
of a robber tiptoeing like a chorus dancer. a couple
clink glasses, filled with wine. the waiter hears
a feather floating to rest on terracotta.
on the street below a woman with a bun has departed
the gallery, towards the window of a man hardly known.
she wanders through a courtyard. frames with eyes
scrutinise footsteps. heels echo in the square. she glimpses
in the reflection an indistinct moon. another illusion.
a fat bald man jumps on a bus. she's obsessed
by that portrait and had read in the news
stories of post-war posturings, a curtain imposed by a rip.
romance in the window & she never witnessed dessert.
somehow in the city a forest of trunks hides
a power-blue sedan & a man with a gun. she can't remember
what she's done. her sister escaped with a bag
filled with notes. dull clues. a uniformed team takes
their cues. they talk to strangers. she doesn't often do that
unless in a shop, for an order, or a bank vault with her code.
the plot mechanically drawn like the woman by her easel
in her 50s frock, trying to convince the telescope
he's the one. a siren wails as she arrives at a different
streetscape, blinded as a gaslight catches
the diamond necklace of a different diner
with a man who may or may not be her betrothed.
she tried to call. no answer. where did Norman go? black birds flock
& swoop overhead, hardly noticed against fading stars