Things left behind by someone who will return: One bicycle, vermillion, still warm. Two gloves, fingers spread like a greeting or a surrender — it's hard to tell with gloves. One chain, oiled, ticking down from the last revolution. One amber rectangle thrown against the cold by the window that says: inside is real. One strip of strait, steel-going-green, remembering where it came from. One bird, one leg, one direction it refuses to look. The wall does not count. The wall is just the wall being prussian blue about the whole thing.