20 years ago, two girls waved
to the vanishing man in his vortex

while his wife smeared blood on her lips
before the heap of compost started to tear

black bag of human garbage clinging
to his back, all of our emptying baggage

that he pushed on rusted swings,
rocked in synthetic carriages.

But his journey was diving & running
and he didn’t have space for all these poking limbs  

He’ll leave them at the airplane’s entrance  
and fold the tearing bag into his pocket

A wrinkled souvenir of the limited places
the splitting ocean would let him occupy.