In the slow dying city, the air trembles as from a severe effort to suppress the darker emotions. I walk, old and troubled, through streets that are only provisionally there. What strange weather! It’s becoming common this winter to see a piano burn. A form waiting on my desk at work asks for the seven last words of our savior. All I can remember is that the words “mushroom” and “music” are contiguous in most English dictionaries. I start to think that maybe I should call instead of continue on foot. (“You’ve reached the voice mail of. . . . Have a blessed day.”) My relatives floated up from red smokestacks, their faces without shape, their embers without light.