through the railings and down
onto the stone steps
fall the droplets of paint,
fragrant pearls in the air.
their path is thick with intent
as they converge and swim,
meeting a polished boot and speckling
the laces with a lizard green.
a low sigh and groan
and a quick shake of a beige trouser,
and the paint worries his soles
before oozing past like slurry.
his face tilts up to the light
and like scrimshaw, it is
a faded alabaster, carved with
the stories of his long life
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