after Jericho Brown Connor on the four train, sports page rolled into a drumstick. Connor stretched out shirtless on the front lawn, a football propped behind his head. Connor laughing against the red brick of a café, head thrown to the sky like a sail snapped by the song of a quick wind. Connor in The Daily News: a balcony mishap, twenty-four flights, faulty railing. Connor through the bottom of a pint glass. Connor through the crowd at West Fourth, a fistful of fence in each hand. Connor through the bottom of a whiskey glass. Connor hobbling on a kickstand crutch, swinging at stray frisbees, tree trunks. Connor on Channel 7: a good-hearted young man, filled with hope, always whistling. Connor drunk-leaning toward a woman at the bar, whispering a smile of green lights across her face. Connor in black and white, frozen on a bookshelf. Connor in the tire-gravel high note of a blues ballad, the scratch of careless stubble on another man’s neck. Connor collected cleanly into a shoebox. Connor in the search bar. Connor on G-Chat: Invisible. Connor floating in the corner of a cooler, tucked behind the last Newcastle. Connor circling in a breeze above the Neversink, curling around the Hemlocks like smoke in a dead room. Connor in a porcelain vase on a mantle. Connor in poems that have nothing to do with Connor. Connor sitting shotgun in the silent 4Runner on the way to his own funeral, bare feet propped on the dash. Connor between eye-rubs on the couch before dawn, flashing in and out like an old time movie, shower water running in the next room.