you have been wounded. again.

rehearse the old algorithm, about

breathing, bleeding less, finding cover.

where is the creek?

down the scree, scramble;

through the astringent brush, descend.

bleed into the creek,

drink more of its gin by a factor of four;

bury your hobbled ankles in its gravel.

find a spot on a rock to receive the sun.

if the current suggests laughter, accept.

accept the circling red refracted crawdads.

your scoriated heart, the often broken

creek . . . they probably cannot be stopped.

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