The Tent

When you press your fingertips
together your hands are a tent

and in this sunlight glow orange.
You can almost not see the bricks

shifting the light like barges
chugging along the canal

or pigeons swooping through the air
into your hands now open

above the plum stains on
the plate remembering the fruit.

Again you press your fingertips
together. You have

a cigarette tucked behind your ear.
You burst out laughing.