What life, thick-skinned, is ever bullet-proof when the neck begs
the samurai sword Be swift! And the pain of a scream centers the
heart of a sob? You beat death, whether run-down or upscale, to
the kill though it lies on you like a burial—All of them gone.
They’re gone.—You in the midst, coming in or out of life, have no
better sense than to spare yourself with pennies of support, as
those reminders—That’s him! That’s her!—of how what blocks
you in can—watch!—give way…like a body pulled away from a