Each tiny sky gives way
in turn, from day to night to hell to day.
Still sits the hunter, hunkered over the scree
of the timeline, laptop
a weapon on his knee—
the last free mind
crouched, peering down,
the roof of his mouth dry
with focus.
He knows
the echo chamber is a lung.
He knows what beast thereby respires,
what slitted eye compiles from dull light
its only pattern, knows
the self-surmounting sound
its vast throat hugs agog,
the awful claws that furrow
highways to heraldry
everywhere it stalks.
He's found some fifty fucked-up souls
lodged in the Sodom of its breast; prophecy burns
its hole in his gut.
The quarry surrounds him. Now
glimpsing a flank he takes a shot—
a puff of kicked-up fragments
rises; he reloads, fingers
the trigger—damage
so far just cosmetic.
Still he sweats
with knowing; his pupils dilate
in the chlorine glow, his waxy
muscles stiff—
the fight belongs
to those who won't let go of it.

David Donna

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