Half truth, what the man
in the isle leans
on when he bends
in indecision, his spine

makes for something solid
it is like others', like pull
the dip and there
we are all on the patio

"Mavericks" he says and omph
through chips like grass
whistles,

they play. The crumbs
in the crevice next morning
are already earth, almost
their edges sag,

and so the evening satiates.