Observer

Not seeing me, not even looking, K. on her silver cruiser charms her way through the last long moment of   the changing light: snow boots and a Seychelles Warbler’s old blue tights, a rolled-up yoga mat in her basket wobbling like a wild tiller as she pedals. It feels illicit and somewhat right to stand across the intersection without shouting her name, or even waving. According to the internet tutorial, the fact that photons turn into tiny loyal billiard balls as soon as we start watching suggests no error of method or measurement, but rather, as far as anyone can tell, an invisibly unstable world, a shaking everywhere that seeing must pin down and fix. So, that morning I stumbled on you out, alone, bending through the traffic at Orange and Edwards Streets: a someone else then whom I, alone, can never otherwise see — there has to be a kind of   speech beyond naming, or even praise, a discipline that locates light and lets it go.