[097]
05/18/2011 05:28 p.m.


In the mid-morning he drops a glass, he's down to about three now.
Barefeeted and boxer-briefed, he stands frozen arms askew and contemplative
and eventually picks his way on pointed toes over the blast-zone, sweeps up the
refuse and drops the jangling bits into the bin. The little scratchers hide amongst
shining dust and questionable leavings. He picks up a piece of white bread, kneels,
and dabs up the gleaming leftovers, his knees bleeding.