The morning opens
                                    as seven or so

                                    small-caliber
muzzles. I straddle
                                    sketches

                                    of the single

                                    wheeled carriage—
the embrace
                                    of arms against arms.
My mind burns
                                    as a hot ember

                                    in the day’s hand,
my pen
                                    bound to thieve

                                    the lives of those
I will never meet,
                                    grill wild indents

                                    along the insides
their chest cavities,
                                    lay them down

                                    like hooves
against the earth.