From this window

I see you
outside the third-floor window
of my office.
You are alone
and the sun is beside you,
flashing on the street,
like clothing, windy on the line,
or a shadow of a jet, thin
as thought travelling in the eye,
or a fish hurtling under the world
except the river is the fish
moving over the river bed and
the shadow is, at this moment,
your hair, and I am a
shirt on a string
waving like a passenger
coming back to this city,
here where we
are someone else.

– 18/2/16, Guelph, ph