My brother, who would then descend metered

glass sheets (apparent once shattered in turn)

to core the ramped snow at the northern face

of the eastern abutment of the Church

Street bridge over the Naugatuck as a

meteor strikes the sheer face of the moon,

disputed clenched austerity during

the unsupervised span from 3 o'clock

school recess to 5 o'clock work recess;

was free, suddenly, of the blemished rail.

A surprising interval – aqueous,

achronal, quietly resonant – yet

he's gone quick as knob-strung baby tooth, and

secreted between pillow and mattress.