whatever the wind says that divides
the surface of the river
into tiny, upward gestures of surprise
is not known, not here
by me on the bank. i have wondered
this same thing about the wintry faces of pedestrians,
i have wondered how much of this
is crazy and how much is real. he must have been
hearing the wind, to be so deeply
startled when the bullet rushed
from the assassin’s control. he remembers always
how it was, to breathe. his eye
drifts through the streets in the city,
through the rain, dreaming after his life.