Men were in pursuit, the caller whispered,
Firing their guns into the air.
It was the street fair, he surmised.
Socks, once so cheap, had gone up in price.He had his own Ninety-five theses, and really,
They were just one. God, why did you give me
Ambition that exceeds my grasp and sisters who
Beat me every last time?In the cluttered cafe sat men wrapped in the silence
Of old sorrow. Outside a Zamboni
Had fled the ice to perform figure eights
On streets supplied with filth.Nearby a man with pockets turned out
Bird-dogged another with the unspoken threat
Of knifepoint intimacy in the night
While the river watched with the fire that it hides.June 2003