I would have me emptied, and to remain behind. A plastic bag gripping a winter tree, in the wind, and the sound it makes is empty. You hear shoes down the hall, though you don’t live in a house. They sound as if they are approaching. The truth is, they are not getting any nearer. And you remember you have been left behind. Reflections in a bowl, sometimes city lights, sometimes the stars, for dinner. You stop to read the graffiti, and the notes tapped to windows, posted from the inside facing out, written on, leaving no margins: I think this happens more so than it should, in poorer cities. I would have me slapstick readied, though I remain on board. I know the captain has burned the charts. I know the city birds are one big computer. The notes in the windows sometimes include pictures: an angel with the living earth for feet, or burning trees with typeset for flames. A skirmish of ghosts, folding in on itself, breathes its last. I am at sea. Without a bathing suit in the arms of stars.