You fashion a return. The city collects now its snow and ices down like breath,
lights effuse, having been strung from limbs of trees.
You cannot find in the straight backs of men, the clean cut of men
on any street the modicum of him. The ocean you have left
carries you with inertia, always
tugging in the inner ear, the seahorse horseshoe bones of it.
the singularity, then, that
opened up, the pinpoint bloom of lead and things heavier than lead
would pull him in
as you troll the streets in which you imagine --
thinking of the man as krill.
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