Mise en Scène: St. Petersburg, 1881
There is a gaze trip-wired
to a twitch
in the corner of a mouth
A bullet’s loving fixation
upon its target
One long moment
before time starts up again
On a forehead: jewels of sweat
There is one thing
and no other
Up ahead, one’s future
idles on a street corner
picking its teeth
An arm rises
A footman crumples agonizingly
to the pavement
as carriage wheels thunder
Two hundred feet away,
a severed hand tries to speak