Paul Vargas

  Union For Wounds Of The Face; Union For Wounds Of The Head

Bumstumble run.
Heels in the snow.
Charging in open cold.

Union des blessés
de la Face et de la Tête.

Lord, its position now:
smoke in its hair; stale clothes;
fear swallowing alpine air.
Gulping it up. Bellies distended.

That hard, heavy sound
of running spreads no
further in the winter
than the line lying dead,
triple time, times two.

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