Every day the countenance
of sunshine and blonde
leap off the city’s jacket of glass,
these places drawn close
like a fist full of straws.
I see a street musician nodding out,
clutching E minor.
Two crows sparring across
a half-eaten chicken leg.
We eat on the run, run before the hungry.
We become traffic.
Vagrants argue incoherently
in the clouds we make around them.
I leave home and the wind
toys with coupons and magazine covers.
Where are all the people?