It was a day of metal and circles, perhaps presaged by the orange full moon of the night before, torch-cut steel insert hammered through the sheet glowing on the floor. Or deck, in boat parlance, thin to begin with now rusted needing doubler reinforcement and stanchion replacements, round patches welded watertight with 7018, sun spotlighting through portholes like stepping stones shining in the gloom, rusted roof a sunset in midafternoon. Cheeseburgers, waterglasses, pilings, too. The wheels that will take me to Kelly who comes full circle by chance intercepting me at the intersection where we wait for red to turn green so she and Joel can pedal across Stone Way to me. The Lucky we drink is round, as are the bubbles in it. The watering can and watchface, the iris, lens and pupil that take it all in. Matt asks Monte where he gets his links. "I make them." Coiled around a cylinder, pulled into a spring, each snip is a step along a path he can't see, handwrought bracelets, the snakes within snakes within snakes all eating their tails, days within days, sunset, moonrise, the dome of sky, the circle, the tribe.