Eyes,
wrists,
stubbornness,
all put together
in one machine,
and you rode
that little pill
over my head
behind the bullpen
sucking on Budweiser;
and that other machine,
winged, blue-borne,
high over a Korean hill
where I sucked on my guts
and dreamed of the tarp
being pulled back
on a cloudy day,
one day soon.