It seems like some kind of blood sport:/patrol cars veering off in all directions./Panic expands in the chest/but the shock was indifferent./But who’s the mystery guest,/who is the runner,/other than myself./Escape is not competitive; it tends to just happen./First walking, next running, past the sprockets in the tulips/ in the midst of parkland./It brought tears to my weary eyes/back over where I left the bandage./Asphalt laid down a gentle current/overseeing a profile of someone no one knew/bred before time came upon us/the memory of false glory/we scoop up crawfish deep in the park./With bamboo poles next to those asleep in the brambles/ we like to eat cheap bananas of our very own.

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