The pond beside the dump
bubbles with blue froth;
milk cartons and black bags float
like dead fish. A man’s head
pushes through, severs the surface
of the water, red wires
pour like linguini from his mouth,
the pockets on his vest
overflow with nails, screws.
He crawls up
from the pond, a trail of black
sewage saturating
the ground behind him. When he takes
three steps—then stops—
leeches try to twist
free from the patches
of beard on his neck
and with both hands he pulls
the wires from his mouth
like a rope from the back
of his throat. I see the silver fuse,
its widening sphere, and from his
stomach—a beige mortar round
he births through his teeth.
