Grace

As she moves through the crowd
her theramin footsteps
leave the palest impressions
on the York Stone slabs

A brown child turns to see
and his ice cream drips
a raspberry vanilla tear
upon the place she paused

But she’s in flight now
not omnipresent
yet swift to aid
- a darting, dancing Starling

She sings contralto reassurance
to the city’s dizzy minds
her promiscuous kiss
is balm for all our guilty lips.

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