The evening fashions a man at a pulley,
an armchair in front of an outlook,
unfenced sky, many cities, father
of some furniture. Thus screens.
One man pulls scenery up he almost
understands: Milk, cigarettes, lotto,
pokeweed, mooneye.
He rises into place the way
a name travels—an ordinary passage
poured into—chickens and bitters, zip codes,
pistols, some persons of interest,
some partial, some tickets
are turnips. He’s Polish.
Some helpers not helping.
Evening passes out bears against weather,
this business of courage—the world
falls to pieces. Guesswork,
jumpsuit, he tips his head
back, sidelong, and holds
his son to one ear like a radio.