He looks out to the spring night composing its indifferent themes.
He looks out through his point of view. Looks through
the window to the darkness, which throws him back. He stares
at the night, his mirrored face, as into an unsolved
private sea. His pain elusive, dangerous, vastly intelligent.
Like the largest living giant squid his pain down there in his private sea.
He reflects on the playoffs, the anthem sung by a sellout crowd
at Scotiabank Place, dead soldiers' faces scrolling through TV time-outs,
and starts to weep. Afterwards, he is simply starving.
The way a good cry can really make a person ravenous.