He takes a long live minute of ticking senses
to know it was a rubber bullet homed at his forehead,
sitting among the hats and sandals remaining
like bronzes; live-time memorials to a cause
that presumes its loss to give its hope a wildness.
He bleeds down his best shirt, worn in case of death,
now ruined with survival; his concussion sparkling
like a wet shook net; his blood unnoted,
misused on asphalt . . . still he wants it back
as kin do their fallen. The frontline runs past him,
strange and normal again in their single skins
and desire for dinner. Someone slows to pull him up
and is off, leaving him in a standing spangled sway,
suddenly ill with the idea of sacrifice and okay.