CHRIS SITEMAN

On the Way—

X's only weapon'sno weapon at all—
Belly crawlsdirt across an open field, sand
shifts, stones presspointed, tall grasswavers wind;
Around X fliesa nebula; an elegant math:
metal clouds—Earthen clumps & bodies

of return—
Some body not X's own: some B, C, D,some wounded
Q, R, S, some E, F or H,lost to the world—

There's a long-lens staring down,zeroing
another's breath,letting delicate crosshair
vision reston a rising & falling chest—

X's breathing along

with whatever N, O or P,

X movestowards; time'sa tunnel
drawing X to coordinatesalong the edge of seeing—

From each corpse eyedeath watches

X strain against earth—

Even still, X feels in X's bones;X knows X
can rescue the whole alphabetif X can just get

back & forthbetween points

Alpha & Zed

unscathed.