WEBVTT

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"Ignatz in Pursuit."

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Her nostrils straining to
the limits of their stretch,

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and her lips glued shut, and her
fingers clamped over her mouth

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for good measure,
she is running--

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running from Ignatz, and
the night like a drum skin,

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and her heart like someone
locked in the trunk of a car.

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And if there were
only time, God,

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she would spit it
out into her palm.

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She would pry out the
mortar between two bricks

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and wedge it in there.

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She would shove it
under the cyclamens

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in the municipal planter.

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She would catch a piebald
pigeon and tie it to its foot.

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But there is no time.

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And she cannot bring
herself to swallow it.

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And he is coming
up fast behind her,

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taking a lamppost in his stride.

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