January 3rd. 2:34 AM. Streets. Streetlights only and the odd lit window. GLASS walks and huddles against the cold. He’s now an animal in dark coat and dark shoes with a cold gun. De-gloved fingers fondle the metal in the right coat pocket while the left hand chain smokes.

 

Gl.

This city is entombed in branches.

Its people play in the shadows,

Are passed over by visitors—

 

While I cast myself into nets

And against walls

Curiously nosing cold metal

 

Appearing on empty balconies

Casting every reflection but mine

Taking unstable forms

 

Forgetting everything

Clinging to nothing

Comprehending nothing

 

Not persisting

Not forming piles

Leaving unasked

 

Not growing

or shrinking

Not telling stories

 

Only touching your cheek once

No trace

But the shape of a question on your

 

lips