If not the sluggish wheel.

"So fiery the prize of these marksmen" —Celan

He flinches into the cold grass &
    you want to learn about compassion,
    you want to run headlong 
        into an overburdened dream;

but the sky has turned fanatic and you think
    it'll never rain again
    it'll never rain &
in the cold grass he turns to see and you look away—

he drowns in dew,
    his heart throbs,
    his voice—

you imagine you learn about compassion,
you imagine a whistle in the wind &
    the crack of midnight violence,
    daybreak buckles &

you break, imagine nothing else,
    just the bitter smell of lilac & rose & incarnation
        while he—

    he wraps himself in the cool and waits
        & waits—
    he hears the siren blast & 
sees out the far side
    where his worldlines are folded origami;

you fold your world into his meridian,
you fold your breath & 
    catch sight of the vipers &
    the bastards & 
        the lying dead prone on confetti-splattered pavement
    
heart proffered to the frozen god of a father who died
    so we never have to learn about—