my lap like wings of restless birds On elevators I am afraid they will go to someone's throat in sleep I keep them jammed between my thighs and awakening often in the dark soak them long in the bathroom sink the coldest water turning them blue each finger a fish jerking on its hook. He has spent another night walking through waves of nausea, balancing the pain behind his eyes to keep it from falling through the roof of his mouth and out onto the rug, showing itself to be the walnut he pictures growing in a fold of his brain. His coveralls will make him a keeper of the grounds, intent on doing battle once again with the filthy brood of pigeons that has called the height its own. He will set up housekeeping in the air, above the campus, where the tower's view of Texas is grand and clean. A footlocker, salvaged from a tour of duty still active in his mind, will contain provisions for the rest of his life: ammunition to last the day, rimmed by canned meats and fruit and a rolled towel standing white beside a spray deodorant. In the shade given back by the wall, he will lay three pistols, empty and cracked open, next to a pair of rifles soothed in oil, their telescopes hanging ready in leather sacks. He will give what he has to give to anyone in sight, completing the lives of fourteen strangers and changing the color of