for Walter Scott
no splattered brilliance. no thick droplets condensing on blades of grass. no cues that this is tragedy. the trees are fenced trees weary and uninterested in this drama. the camera’s sound muted. perhaps victim of my ear its flightiness its refusal to record to participate in. no symphony swell no timpani rumble like the pulse of a hunted thing between the teeth of what it was made to nourish. they clasp your wrist as even jackals know you must desire to be held in this dwindling moment. and as animals anticipating nourishment they paw your throat to insure that you are dying. it is the only way. they must be certain. the warped fence is no metaphor. I strain for your eyes my eyes locked on the screen looking for the break for your recognition of what your needs be. the choreography of your descent is so inelegant and does not lend itself to elegy it is kin to a toddler’s crumple if that means anything maybe. the man that kills you. could those be incisors hanging over his lip his head hoodless but so at home here. all the ordinary as breath. tell me. how long do you keep breathing your face flush with dirt the dirt fast becoming mud.
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