don't imagine the chalk outline of his body but saffron handprints my nephews etch on driveways, bright beaks of ducklings, the delicate daffodil & peace we squander because it feels somehow false & simple like a coupon & there's no crimson thumbprint swirled against the lens only the Yes of a world unfuzzed, having seen so much poetry & terror which is an accurate summary of our lives on jackhammer migraine days gusting hail when dynamite roars through the sacred guts of churches or just poetry & terror in the cubicle on days we crave sky after the subway's long claustrophobia beneath gravestones & angled pipes & perhaps you pass me in the crosswalk as its timer blinks from green to orange, only seconds left before the red palm strands all the leather briefcases & you fumble yours, papers splattering so together we gather what we can while taxis shriek their horns at two strangers on their knees