Slumped over in gaffs, so
many without pulse, how did one stand tall, pause
then brush his hair back? Men
like him looking up like flight risks; say
“Exactly,” in that miracle voice?
A faint breeze on zoom as you slip
your phone in his pocket — How against

containers hanging along the bow all fonts
are justified by defacing matter —
1/2 linguistics, 1/2 I’m sick of nice things. Whiskey.