The stoic. The washed up fish-eaters.
The floating people mistaken for buoys.
Those that lean against glass panes
graffitied with black marker obituaries.
The mutterers. The wailers in the parks.
The powers walkers that won't stop.
The weeping selfies. The huggers.
The entanglement of mute glances.
The twenty-somethings not talking
of diets and fashion. The hystericals.
The agent that stays at the quiet
open for inspection until the end.
The student buried in her set text.
The incense burners in the sewer.
The junkies. The abandoned phones.
The frugal, lined woman planting
makeshift crops between two walls.
The bone collectors. The gaping deniers.
Those who refuse to step on the stiff birds.
Those unmoved by the disoriented dogs
and talk of the all-white reef.
The singers. The stripped hypocrites.
The ones that cannot cry anymore.
The ones that know it is their doing.