He has gone down the street, and I know he will not be back.
Our street was too walled a place, too tooled a track,
For him to find or to lose himself; he will not be back.

There was that in the ride of his shoulder and of his head,
That cried for the fumes of a background deeply red.
There was a demand for fullness in the breaking of his tread.

When I see him again I shall see him, not seeing him,
Carved black against the line of a hill's hot rim,
Finding and losing himself in the space that has lured him.