So the jet stream carries nickel light and narrow births.
Ink slows in your pen. Do not breathe too deeply.
Gravel shifts from the east to the west side of the street.
Cars park at the edge of a vacancy.
Nothing bleeds deeper than traffic lights.
Walking south on Bedford, he takes milk from a carton in sips.
No—I said— he slips a cigarette from the pack to his lips.
Lie down for me. This is no time for resurrections.