like a hand from a hot stove—
one big mad twisted engine,
no headlights left—
as if to prove,
via hand-eye coordination,
that hunting was a sport,
and I was just a second-
stringer, excised from the team.
Even in the silence
of midnight blindness,
I cannot bear to listen
to the black box message
and so must cut it short.
Biography isn't destiny—I know
that's what it'd say. But history
isn't nothing, either—at least
not anymore.
