I am being cut into little pieces by the wind and scattered over the city. I am not snoring drunk under the overpass, or huddled on a cot at the women’s shelter, a black eye giving away all my secrets. I am not sleeping standing on one leg like the heron with the slicked-back Elvis haircut. I am awake like all the glimmering fish in the estuary, swimming to unheard music, unblinking and voiceless through each successive eat-and-be-eaten world: opal. Emerald. Ebony. Awake like the fool in the electric blue business suit who stands at the edge of Lake Merritt fishing at 3 a.m. in the heart of the city. He grins to himself and casts his line farther and farther out as if he could hook the whole glinting purple lake the clouds, the cars, the scudding night and reel it in, sing to it, and eat it.