What's Written in Braille

I am lighting Washington Avenue
with white sunglasses and my newest assumed attitude.
I'm so enamoured with those looks of disgust and glances
((trying.not.to.be.obvious))
while
waiting
waiting
waiting
[[for that luminescent man calling 'walk']]

For $ 1.50 I am
riding[read:writing] the 16 to Nicollet Avenue
where there is a man requesting thirty cents for bus fare.
I can see the bulging plastic.bottled.vodka in his pocket,
but I smile and offer a quarter (he could use some change)
wishing he had somewhere to go besides the bar.
Across the street, a woman tightens her scarf
and for a brief second her lips are revealed
like red flags flapping a foreign language.
She is approached but cannot find the words.
(denial? yes, please.)

There is no hair risen on your ice-cold body
that I will not trace like braille engraved on your back.
I would not waste deciphering
the frozen peaks,

because now I am melting ice from my eyelashes in a cafe.town
warmed by burning lastyear's yule logs.

and there are girls giving life to the breathless
phenomena of life lurking behind their mascara
{ and I only have kissed three girls
and my favorite coffee is dark roast
and I have a plant named Olivia
}
and the boys are wearing wax ears and smiling
to pass the time while tracing lips
{ and which base will this lead to?
and can I keep the lights on?
and there will be no trace of me tomorrow
}

And shall we ask the man on Nicollet what he thinks of Olivia?
Here, we can't ask the woman if she'll leave the lights on:
indecipherable.
(denial? no, thank you.)

And all the while I am losing contact with your skin
because the braille is melting into tired canvas.
I am not an artist.
I am not an evangelist.
I am not an interpreter.

I am illustrious.