Slumped over in gaffs,

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 this, 1/2 that I’m sick of nice things. Whiskey.