Triangle Park

As day breaks, delicate as languid tongues,
he is a void, melted into gutters
where rain water reflects in patterns
of rippled orange.

His spine slouches against
a skyline, breaking from earth,
imprisoned by the sky.

This exhale, this puff of morning
smoke over brick buildings
beneath peach moon blue,
circles his head.
He is empty.

She is imprinted on the street line
creases of his palms, Parisian scent
on the underside of his tongue.
She is transient, coveted, sifted
through frozen hourglasses,
as loved as death.