I look up from William Strunk’s Elements of Style
and there it is: the river depositing ships
on the city’s shimmering rim; the outsize girl
with her hoop; John Kindness’s patchwork fish
with the docks in its sockets like a wash of oil.
My back has been turned so long I thought the whole
magnificent shebang had gone up protesting
in a pillar of smoke, but the faces on the train are real
as taxation and the sea-locked causeway is holding.
I read again: do not join independent clauses
with a comma; the possessive of witness is witness’s.
How do you punctuate a soul in two places?
I leave half of it here, take half home to my son
with his bath accomplished and his sleepsuit on.