On the way home from the airport, listening to every liberatory anthem I could manage, I was stricken by that old imagery of the circulatory city. The question always follows: how can a system survive on so many arteries and so few veins? What of all the turnarounds and cul de sacs? What’s to be made of these many tributaries?

Well. K. is gone and there’s nothing to do but look back. On her turbulent face. On her magnet eyes that burn like hot gunmetal. On her perpetually too-young hands. Or forward, to the shallow parabola of negative space that she’ll pull taut across the continent tonight. Or I could keep my head down and listen to those same tired love songs.

The city solves itself: its arteries have lashed me to it. It’s swallowing me whole, knotted veins and all.

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