The airy tanks are dry. My hand draws back. I often sigh still for the dark downward and vegetating kingdom of the fish and reptile. One morning last March, I pressed against the new barbed and galvanized fence on the Boston Common. Behind their cage, yellow dinosaur steam shovels were grunting as they cropped up tons of mush and grass to gouge their underworld garage.
Parking lots luxuriate like civic sand piles in the heart of Boston.
The monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat. Its colonel is as lean as a compass needle. He is out of bounds. The ditch is nearer. Space is nearer.