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The walk is

a gray stone grid
laid by a thousand hands
broken here and there
by a crack where
earth has settled or
paused to take a breath.
	One that angles
from this side to the other
might be a memory
of a southern tremor
that swept the ocean over
a coast that could have been
this one, concrete meditation
on death that escapes the notice
of most passersby.
	A thin stain of oil
inscribes the wavering
path of a bicycle slowed
out of control some time ago
by a staggering crowd. It takes
earth breathing and memory
to break stone, but a scrap
of paper, a leaf on wind,
a hat, a begging bowl can
break the grid. Sweepers
set to work before the sun
to move them. Signs
of human presence--
rigid patterns broken
at the drop of a hat, armies
to fix them in stone, control
out of control on every edge.