if Lorenz had dreamt in color
leans back against a faded brick wall,
gray smoke matching gray air,
flecked strands of his head uncovered against the cold.
flicking burning embers to a muddied ground
where they die, each, an inglorious death
among footprints and soda cans.
He exhales and looks
in at grudged and paned windows
on a caged smile:
with the melodrama of his forbears,
caught between definition
a no-longer youth,
not yet wise.
a precise instant
in jeans and mismatched socks.
Distracted by a flicker of butterfly wings
etched with destiny in black and gold,
brushes the spiderwebs
out of his hair,
maybe even winks.