For the train-wrecked， the puck-struck，the viciously punched，

    he pole-vaulter whose pole snapped in ascent¹.

    For his asphalt-face，his capped-off scream，

    God bless his dad in the stands.

    For the living dog in the median

    car-struck and shuddering² on crumpled³ haunches，

    eyes large as plates， seeing nothing， but looking，looking.

    For the blessed pigeon who threw himself from the cliff

    after plucking out his feathers just to taste a failing death.

    For the poisoned， scalded， and gassed， the bayoneted，

    the bit and blind-sided，asthmatic veteran who just before his first date in years

    and years swallowed his own glass eye.

    For these and all and all the drunk，

    Imagine a handful of quarters chucked up at sunset，

    lofted⁴ into the ginkgos and there，at apogee⁵，

    while the whole ringing wad pauses， pink-lit，

    about to seed the penny-colored earth with an hour's wages

    As shining， ringing， brief， and cheap as a prayer should be

    Imagine it all falling into some dark machine brimming with nurses，

    nutrices ex machina and they blustering⁶ out with juices and gauze，

    peaches and brushes，to patch such dents⁷ and wounds.