Early February at the House of Recovery

I am that neighbor that makes him want to scream.
He can’t get far enough away from me, 
can’t shut his ears against the noise. My window on his 
constantly intrudes

and this place—city infill packed with houses,
apartments, No place
that doesn’t see…

He has to make himself numb 
to it. He is practicing
how to do just that, 

to leave and come back 
without anyone knowing. 
Like a boy on a bike: 
first falter, then flight—

naked, new 
on the snow-covered grass, 
arms open to the snow-heavy trees,

the pale furred sky
and blurred patchwork 
of houses and lawns.

He is a first man 
in the blue-dawn cold,
hard edges erased, 
old sightlines 
gone.