by Gabriel Gudding

    For the train-wrecked， the puck-struck，the viciously punched，

    he pole-vaulter whose pole snapped in ascent.

    For his asphalt-face，his capped-off scream，

    God bless his dad in the stands.

    For the living dog in the median

    car-struck and shuddering on crumpled haunches，

    eyes large as plates， seeing nothing， but looking，looking.

    For the blessed pigeon who threw himself from the cliff

    after plucking out his feathers just to taste a failing death.

    For the poisoned， scalded， and gassed， the bayoneted，

    the bit and blind-sided，asthmatic veteran who just before his first date in years

    and years swallowed his own glass eye.

    For these and all and all the drunk，

    Imagine a handful of quarters chucked up at sunset，

    lofted into the ginkgos and there，at apogee，

    while the whole ringing wad pauses， pink-lit，

    about to seed the penny-colored earth with an hour's wages

    As shining， ringing， brief， and cheap as a prayer should be

    Imagine it all falling into some dark machine brimming with nurses，

    nutrices ex machina and they blustering out with juices and gauze，

    peaches and brushes，to patch such dents and wounds.