1. my mother’s fingers searching her cast-hardened scalp-
mask of hair for those metal defacers who creep though
careful, careful- one by one she blindly pats down
her criminal skull for the last of those weapons to remove-
2. the slug’s feeling eyes changing shape,
those short-leashed kites checking the air in front
of him for a reason to turn back
stretching out of his slick invertebrate mind
when I point out a small finger: stop.
they retreat so fast
as pulling the plug on the air mattress
and all of that oxygen goes woosh
back into the room-
he turns around
3. the hands that did not go back.
they were not blind
4. the sound you can see and imagine:
the crowd is a field and each person
is a stalk of long grass
the furry kind by a pond
moving up and down in time like
machinery in a factory.
chins lowered: they pound.
heads back quickly: they retract.