A coolness, almost indistinguishable from moisture passed from the polished stone through my shirt, spread down from the windows, the massive grid of mirrors where the clouds, marshals of a great disappearance, played in their parallel recreation.
On Wall St, they kiss in the banks. You can learn a lot standing in one place.
The twins, bald, only bowl in glass vestibules. Most mornings the shards lay on the sidewalks outside the vest pocket banks on Maiden Lane, Broad Street, Williams Street, Trinity Place, Rector Street and Exchange Place.
The man turned, sharing a small pink mole. It peered through a mix of whispy white hair over the sharp line of his starched white collar. As the man reached for the rail, the collar rose then settled back below the mole, so it rested right on the collar's edge, tender and pliable.
Apart from my memories, without the consolation of dreams, the air sly and pliant severs the coolness. The light slides over bald men. There's no place to hide your disappointment.
