His high-ness. The foot-long hands. A suit that did not,
stiltwalker trousers and clown shoes, and localised in
the pliancy of the smile; embarrassment, kindness, the loss.
I tore out and sellotaped the page to my wall, like an icon.
Now wire hair is growing from my ear canals and neck.
I tend to smell lightly of pine. The street’s a hall of mirrors,
each reflection mine and brother wolfman, sister midget,
what I want to write is we are metaphors of one another
and if I see the image of him loping down Tenth Avenue
or queuing in his winter coat for coffee and a muffin—
his ducking, gentle, spectacled head an inch or two
from the wooden beam—I mean to look through him.