That you have to act as if you’d broken-in— what’s that mean exactly? and the mist? what can the mist possibly mean if it means one thing to the scratch tickets and another to rose petals—they turn, flower petals turn, torn-up lottery tickets turn, in the wind a steady stream across the sidewalk, turning, the brick sidewalk sailing a little, before settling under the same sky boot heels walk below— but what does that bring to the mix? You’re just a thief now, come in from a white squall of rain— highway rain— no one whose name the headlines might out. You’re not unique. I’ve let down those I love too. I’ve swiveled around and in the frozen cloud seen the fire all cross-grained by rain. I’ve smelled the sweat and perfume on the wet towels she left behind, & I’ve made a mess of my name at dusk. I was being called at dusk. I can explain only this.