On a Monday stroll I met again that man:
Red cap, red hands, with a smile
Inelegant. His eyes
Held nothing, knew nothing,
Painted in a drunken brushstroke—no!
Not drunken, but inexact, like the curvature of this world lost
On the tip
Of another’s tongue.
He chewed one shirt made of skin,
Looped twice-over into a wailing belt-buckle.
Even the intoxicated
Of the vermin besides his feet,
Stitched and soled in the tanner’s desperation,
Did not ask for a second serving.
They subsisted on morsels
Of the deconstruction project above.