The O

The man across the alley doesn't move.

He sits in a plastic chair, his coat unzipped,

as if he’s found a quiet, frozen groove

where all the gears of afternoon have slipped.

He exhales once, a ghost of gray and white

that forms a perfect zero in the air.

It holds its shape against the fading light,

a round and hollow sort of quiet prayer.

Then the wind catches it, a sudden gust

that shreds the circle into nothingness.

I’m left with glass between us and a trust

in things that vanish under steady stress.