For several hours, I aim my telescope at your chest.

At some point, I accidentally adjust the zoom: pan granular red.

You replaced yourself with an unfinished chimney.

Multiple fires burn at its base to harden brick.

Meanwhile, you dance with amputees in Third Street Park,

listen to arguments about phantom feelings in their arms.

You unwind their bandages, tape branches to their shoulders,

allow them to relive the essential element of touch: resistance.

As I mix concrete, you return pressing a towel against an incision on your bicep.

You look up, comment on how smoke retains the shape of a conduit.