From the gray waters of concrete downtown
fibrillated with buried rivulets and streams
from the base of the basin to the beam
of the ridge-face, looking back now

at the heights of the little terrace, where granite
frames the figure of a man. Like a painting
pierced by air, hollowed by wind, haunting
the hillside - his hand frozen (blind stalactite

shrouded in hoary volumes - local history).
The anemic one wandering around downcity
glances up now and then toward the prettified
petroglyph - as if smoldering leaves might flurry

into flame sometime. The autumn shrubbery
burned out long ago, and solid cold
creases the clouds, and the clouds shed
chilly hexagons (infinitely formal, infinitely

tiny). And soon the ground is shoveled under
white beyond argument, frozen in polemic slabs
of thought. And the hand, still hovering, stabs
toward turgid drifts (manna-plunder).

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