Approaching glass doors, narrowing to entry,
their sullen looks fell like a virus. The rest
may well be content to merely be a piece of it—
essence of being, inarticulate dispute, atom
of the universe—but deftly immune to this
cryptic elegance of uneven life. Congenialities
for some
are just not enough. Larry stood tucked in shadow
and tired of these neighborhood vagaries. In this
place
one might eventually come to believe in
the weathered light from a frontal. But what remains
is the outcome, the wetted pavement—each day
ground to a point, wavelets licking at his ankles.
[ rdking ]