I’m having trouble weeding out a few streets fit for walking. In the snow of a recent nor’easterner I come back. I’m the customer of a bottle of milk and a dime rag. I’m good at shifting the throttle when a jamboree of poses shows up behind me. In this city, that confronts the sea boldly, I weave through the rakish beat of traffic, pause at a pile of love letters in searing flame, past a circumference of salt sewn wind and shoreline on down towards New Bedford. where Nor’easterners cease in sumps. I wake with your still presence on me. I turn over when the winds hush. I can feel my hand and feet, reporting their fevers to my lifeline, and the casualties of my recesses. We sense each other’s frames, take each other hostage, blind, bound, in an absence of rancor, gusts on sky and water equal to the freezing bounds of the Stellar Marine. Friends sharing the same motion, dream up proof in alibis, copy in secret, messages sustaining the uncomplaining streets. An effigy tossed on the water. greets the day. The rules of the Maritime crossed, to rid the chimes of the radio,. sounding for our figures in the brilliance of dawn.