Even with the woolen fingerless I pocket my hands at the stop, washing my shadow down the slant. Distance. Today, I photographed the part of me I thought I knew, as from a reflection and through the grocer’s green-lined stop on 9th and 14th—in the backdrop of brick dripping and cracks punched by gust. It is, however, something I said that raised my body from the bed. In sleep? Placing the tower in the field I thawed the grass and yielded to the bell. From the top your cap kept a day in, a tie down and a meeting out. The difference in light is minimal, plugs cautiously the crossing. When the bell slipped the water came up and over the hill and what I said was this is a city—blurred and American—clawing at me.