iii

He hangs hangers in a
cupboard left to right

the wind chime's
soft memory gonging

across his neck,
Chico Hamilton style—

a handswidth or two more or less, unstrapping

the braces, snapping brasses
hinged ruler with oil, rarely looking up,

even at those shivers of bleached
green leaf piercings

where other people move
through the light more or less as he does

but rarely with that quadrant over-the-shoulder-
you-see-what-he-sees angle—no

narrating parrot or hummingbird
or offshore bee would follow so close

knowing neither right nor left
nor above nor below

bouncing around
at the end of a pineal stalk

like the third eye of realism
squinting through the low cloud.