Hornets buzz in my blacked-out brain:
panicked, shrill, harpy-sweet.
Rough hands clamp my shoulders, press into stillness,
the motionless frenzy of deer before dogs
devour their entrails.

Two syllables as a question: my name
in a strange infliction. I pull away.
To him, it’s only another incident
to file downtown. Forms, testimonies
-- They’re my friends,
not a two-inch newspaper column,
an item next to idle gossip and
foreign wars.

“He’s in shock—a blanket—“
Not that kind of cold. No.
Not at all. The buzzing, a high piccolo
accompanied by soprano syllables.
I can’t follow them now; let me stay
in case…just in case.