"Ignatz in Pursuit."
Her nostrils straining to the limits of their stretch,
and her lips glued shut, and her fingers clamped over her mouth
for good measure, she is running--
running from Ignatz, and the night like a drum skin,
and her heart like someone locked in the trunk of a car.
And if there were only time, God,
she would spit it out into her palm.
She would pry out the mortar between two bricks
and wedge it in there.
She would shove it under the cyclamens
in the municipal planter.
She would catch a piebald pigeon and tie it to its foot.
But there is no time.
And she cannot bring herself to swallow it.
And he is coming up fast behind her,
taking a lamppost in his stride.