125

Out in the street the air
Flowed through a mass
Of capillary junctions and
The main throbbing routes
Like a warm liquid. He
Felt its successive waves,
Making his way through
The crush, using lights of
Convenience stores and the
Vacillating neons above the
Club entrances as a lost
Mariner might constellations.
The bodies of drunks came
Leaning over his five foot
Frame as they passed and
As one fell into him Harlow
Gave him a close hard left
To the gut and saw him
Stagger down. There was a
Beating in his temple and a
Feeling of gravity and the
Lights were falling away
But it faded as he walked
On. He could feel the gun in
His sock, a reservoir of
Concentrated, silent energy.
It had rained and the
Stoplights had bled into the
Road. The stars ground on
As if attached by spokes to
A great dark wheel. And he
Thought Somewhere behind
There is an engine room.