will

w was always in tribeca, d in soho, that i could remember him, turning around, a glass wall behind him. will would pause, find sunlight, disappear and return to names, places, images. i found c along the stack of black glass boxes, finding a painting, a ghost walking toward me as i knew he had walked before, the twist of movement, the revelation of slowness. there were twenty six minutes and ten more and then goodbye.