Tonight I read of the tricycle driver who played dead
for over an hour. After police sprayed him and another man
with a rain of bullets, he lay still, knowing he’d been hurt,
but somehow knowing too he wasn’t gone yet. When his limbs
twitched, onlookers thought it a miracle. Such gravity,
so near at hand. To crawl back into the carapace
and wear it again. Not like armor, but like a shirt—
ordinary but for the fact of bloodstains drying.
In response to Via Negativa: Specific gravity.