ci.

worn half-down to the bone, the man
leans against the marble

walls of the elevator, how's it going
down there?, I ask,

it's bizarre, he says, and touches a dry
palm to the gray skin of

his forehead, I've never seen anything like
it, it's just surreal, you know?

I can see how you'd say that, I nod, if you're
right in the thick of it, trying to produce

something out of it, the door opens, and
he trudges out into the flickering

light of the hallway, muttering, slumped
still walking, there's a bravery in that

greater than bold-faced cheers, and
colliding visions, greater than a thousand

hands raised to clutch the sky, to clutch:
the carpet with your feet, and walking,

is braver than a thousand voices raised
to fill the roof and square, than feet

in any street you can think of--the quiet
scuff of tired and still walking, pared

down, still thinking, gray-faced and no
sky, the whispered shush to shatter

the fragile violence of vision, the faltering
roar of unmet desire, if you swing it right

flex your knee, hands in your pockets, wise
or weary, you can grind the world that grinds,
shrieking, to halt