A man appears, disappears,
            revenant of the man within the man.

What’s left but white shirtsleeves,
            two gold buttons on a vest

and a trail of fog rolling onto the street
            from the doorway of Au Petit Dunkerque.

Behind the window’s gilded bars: 
            cigars, rows of gold-filled bottles,

and a model ship with twelve sails 
            that always travels east. 

At half-mast, a man no taller than a glass 
            dressed in a captain’s suit

wears the face of leaving 
            but never leaves.