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.

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