Shap

In the sky, a pepper shade of light burns brightest
Millions of jet black eyes blinking over the buttocks of Nebraska
There is an iris-shaped cell that won’t let you live without being alive
Hope for warm bodies

In the nerve spans a tunnel, three 1971 humans
Omaha, Lyon, Omaha, Lyon
They hover, they are helicopters that shave the shale-like atrophy off a jack-hammer heart

Up on the ridge, an upended Hemingway-like Himalaya
A cardiac crest that trusts and coils, swirls
Over car alarms, stray dogs, plastic bags, implosions, and cold bodies
Hope for cold bodies