A fillip. A fandango.

    Like bells， they watch the space between themselves， not us. Its milky¹ white.

    Their whos and wherefores have been smudged for our enchantment².  Once-upon-

    their-bodies steamed good and stiff right into those ruffled³ blackcoats.

    And that‘s how we like them， flushed， immobile to our bootless haste，

    to the loose cargo⁴ drifting by—

    calliope of tin and cash dashing asphalt.

    We like each pistol‘s toy piano ping， how it signals adjustments to temperature，

    alters by degrees our own satisfactions， pin by pin，

    a sound to rejoice in， as the police rejoice， without moving your lips or eyelids⁵.

    The held sigh of a nebula⁶， swelling⁷. How we envy

    the buckles⁸ that clasp back at them. Their radios， looser， lean into the white air—

    thumbed postcoitally， mindful， yet distracted. Their leather straps⁹ have been

    lathered¹⁰ and scraped and are lathered again by fog‘s fur-based intelligence，

    that we wrap about our shoulders， that a splatter of ice-mud clings to. Their laces are latched¹¹

    to thread-holes as they themselves are latched to this morning， bent¹²， raffiné with

    frost. Imagine， their bodies a drum collecting us like steady beads¹³ in a dream！

    And us as fervent¹⁴， our flesh pink with flaps.