A spike in the neck of the beast, struck
to the hole that vends brute speech—
hole struck to Y it, the oaken party
led by a feldspar tie-on tip.
Horn that winds, to match how an hour
wizens, horn that sprouts call
and splits a lung with it, cheeks
are taped shut to promise no
more of bother for any calm hills.
The watchful soldier’s splint, the ball
of knee uneasy in rubber cup, face
twinned to fret, fret and extremity,
watchers with shot and ready bandage—
-2004
