Wax

Like a spook
evanescing
through planes
heaped and membranous
to press its palms
into wax at a séance
he shoulders between
soak-macked commuters
and steam
snarling from grilles.

He pushes through
the maypole frills
on a butcher's door
and a bead curtain
and a Suffolk hedgerow
and a paper hoop
and a waterfall
and a midnight cathedral's flaming ruins.

He fords brooks
tugs on his cuffs like a secret code
ducks under turnstiles
and when he is there
he yields to heat
and does not smoke
and in the tallowy faces of his peers
he leaves his print
warm and shallow.