for the slightest spin. An old man's
irony despoils the floor
in an absurd play of reflections - a new arctic
is shrieking, a hunter with a cleaning powder,

that's absurd! Yet still he crawls
though his impetus is gone; the silence, too.
From windward the victim's taken,

she's so thin, kin and can scarcely breathe
in the mockery of her dream. Then a limping, a noise,
amo, amare rocks through the mind. The rifle's full of saliva.