In the glare of Boylston Street the oscillations of our orbit seem exaggerated, warping skyscrapers to feint at each other like Olympians with epees. We walk as if the concrete sidewalk couldn’t possibly crack and drop us into the subway. We watch the skyscrapers duel with each other and the sky, and refrain from pointless irony. Summers in Boston always hurt with poignancies we rarely share. The gloss of shop windows scorches across our bodies as we pass, but that’s not the pain I respect for textual and historic depth. Maybe you recall the woman crying and smashing a bag of groceries on the gray façade of the building on St. Germain where we lay on the roof all night in the deepest part of summer. Boylston offers single point perspective we gladly employ to orient ourselves to the east. Walking with our naked selves held safely in trust, we impress footfall that overlaps footfall we laid down many years ago. The shuddering of the planet, however slight, acknowledges our presence, our