From the Fishouse

When she sang
in the white alley beside
the covered fruit market

the cheesemakers
and yoghurt pourers sighed
in their large blouses

a legless beggar, perched
on cardboard in his colonnade
stopped twitching his lips

for five long seconds
the corner butcher held
his cleaver in mid swipe

a ringletted redhead’s irises
from their habitual brown
burned gold streaked green

and the woman selling
strawberries laughed
remembering something

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grace in pure white