I saw him in the street he was the blue plastic bag of plastic bags
The poor man his tenant painted threats against three city officials
On the wall of his building which also read glioblastoma please help
My name is Teddy and this is my number

I saw him in the dull rainwater filling a defective streetlight
He was in the phantom limbs of wildlife at the last moment softly
Lifted from the right of way in the so-called City of Fountains
It was from the right he attacked the first of the city officials

Old concert footage he was of the kind with large asterisms
Made to appear in a drawn-out shot of some keyboard player
Soft-edged golden artifact revolving lazily like a brain event
But I was of my time and could not help falling in love a bit

What was he really was it just more plastic bags or was it the mail
Of golden polygons bound like protection about a man with no bed
Protagonist of an award-winning game based on nonverbal folklore
Who crooning through reeds makes away with the distracted child

He was the hoist balk that spoke to the unbearable weight
Of movables from that era when things were made to last
He was the song in the wings of the various insects apparently
Having gone on all night like an idea of reference

Once after losing my way not far from home I saw
His face suddenly in the lightning scar on a walnut
I felt the front of his body in the thrill of wind blowing transcripts
Like this one into the cracked screen of a burner phone

Six olive helicopters issued low over the floodplain in a wedge
Made from the various distances between them and more significant
Against the second city official he formed a wedge and with it
Drove low-information constituents two ways across the plaza

He was this sense of uncleanliness concrete as any animal’s
The almost-pleasant feeling as the drugs of night wore thin
My bare stomach frazzled with organic solvents and my lungs
Smoked like a brace of trout bound in fragrant wands of fir

But I was always glad things had gone the way they did despite
The handle of my knife crumbling away while I watched the game
The firemen were bronze and continued to point through artesian
Jets the color of their noise toward that horizon I gained upon

For I had commissioned them and would always believe in them
My arms vanishing during the catch and pull phase of the stroke
The dock shrinking with all its details to nothing behind me
And when I reached the land I might run again