THE SYMPTOM POOL

Even in death a herd animal

doesn’t like to go it alone

so around and around the field

the dead horse goes until there

are two, three, four to travel

together. Enter a certain weather.

Fall of failing and of failing

to see it through. Enter birds

starting up unmercifully in the dark

and the nonstop whirring of

the little machine you call heart.

Enter the copycat hallway, the same

caliber loaded grandfather’s gun,

the ball bearings and black backpacks

exploding in the sun. Enter this

season’s dresses fanning out

in mermaid tails so all the girls’

legs look pegged on below

the knee. Enter legs pegged on

below the knee, the bewildered

girlfriend, the shutdown capitol,

the sweet stench of uneaten hay.