There’s a poem on page 64. One of the shortest in the book, just a single stanza. It’s called lodestone. He reads it once, then again, mouthing the words to himself: you are not my true north; / I take a winding/ road to reach your side. / but where you are/ is home. He sighs, lets his head drop back. Shortest poem in the book. That’s him. He leaves the book open on his lap, looks out of the window at the city, breathes.