You
are too much for aperture
of night, light filament unbundled
strand by strand like thin fingers
of children letting go in traffic;
you gather new energy to gloat
over—a bitten piece of flesh.
Unsuspecting woman, her slightest
hesitation endangers; a bus arrives
late and the corner of time
has moved three blocks east.
In the city no one notices a man
head down, eyes on strychnine
pavement, brisk shadow fallen near
the intersection, his weakness
like crows feasting on new
sparrows, wings bent oddly
unlike flight, eyes waxed
to milkiness, the dead always
last to tell their side.
