on the second glance.
No, not the first. That’s for fairy tales. Here, the electrons zapped
from eye to eye—it couldn’t be mistaken—a frisson like no other.
No thought required; no assembly needed, only the fully charged air
between us. Across a desk in a random art gallery, the universe unfolded
as it was meant to do, as it has done for millennia. Like our playful nights
in Bologna, where lived the master of shape and contour, Morandi, he,
of the softly lit interiors, the absorbing hues melding effortlessly
with each other, steadily flowing from muted grays to pale yellows,
mauves, and even creamy beiges, the cool but quiet palette an antidote
to troubled times—gliding easily past treacherous shoals—the perspective
alluring, gleaming, radiant, but already found in you. Even in a virtual
world, Bella, the briefest glimpse transports me, luck-seduced,
to a state of rarest elation, as has always been true, from the first
second of the second glance, after the magical penny dropped.