In the panic hour we turn and run
from the healing eland. Blood flows
from our nostrils. The trance takes hold
but the imagined wings do not
bear us up. We overlap one
another, beast / man. Legs tangle
ankle / hock. We no longer run
on our own feet when we follow
in one frieze like running fire
the white veins, rock rivers. We are
no longer in our time. We are all of us
running down, running down.
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