Yellow cordon tape hums low in a stiff breeze off Saginaw Bay a norther that scatters empty evidence markers up and down Miller Road eddies on Dupont Street uncapped and droning. Tennyson, Bishop and Frost lost for words this morning working my way through a pallet of water dead poets urgent as blue sky box kites specks above a crime scene easing the truck past houses of the common abandoned down Whitman transcendence, surely for those forbearing souls over on Emerson.