He waves. His palms wipe frantically
all errors off the unmoved air.
He causes his large, busy hands
to tumble, ravels some loose strings
of hope up.  And the child laughs at him
through the back window of a greenish-yellow
accelerating car. She is carried away.

His hands find a quick final gesture.
They pull a knot of fake relief, and glide
like feathers upward. And while all the past
and future little deaths threaten to flood
that faint birdsong (the child will sit
and not say anything, and know), he stands,
grows smaller on that street. And waves.