Bubbles

The teen watches us across the rail,

the glare of afternoon

shading his gum-chewing face.

At ten meters, you raise your camera

but a string of soap bubbles

enters the frame,

floating toward the sunlight,

the camera missing the moment

the bubbles arrive

as one by one a small boy pops them.

Some friends drift in spheres

still unbroken. Within

strange dreams expand, inflate,

transparent houses in the breeze,

rolling slowly like eyes or lenses.

Talking of your camera,

you too breathe bubbles,

translucent candy,

clear wine from a clear bottle

poured into a glass.

Bubbles rise,

like our young faces

reflecting

part of some part of the truth,

but breaking at one touch.