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700
Whence given time to sit, he'd have
at it there, confronting the many
other selves that could have been.
Whence stolen from and left, on
dirty ground, where glass lay like
shells on beaches far to the south, he'd
eventually return to the world of the living,
or obscure into some ambivalence
to ignore. When ignored, he'd say,
"That's the way it's always been,"
and resign himself to it, once more,
all whilst drowning in reminders left
on a small screen that's always breaking,
that buzzes from his pocket and says,
in a familiar tone, "You're not alone,"
until he's on his feet and punching.
