I imagine
            lucky,
      a bloody           storm
               against     the     floor.

Out        of the eye        
        I care, 
        I know crime
jerked        ugly
on Friday morning.

One more and I’ll
              throw the truth,
                             a madwoman,
                             hands in wing.

The picture shocked dead,
scientific      or mistaken.

This is the stones,
a crew      of medicine—
         I point to the dead,
                         the day,
                         the man so impressed,
                         the light,      the ammunition.

This one-step-ahead interaction
glints            of gold             running,
            through shame
                                       (the smile),
                was dry.

I imagine
            minutes:
    your rules
    your hours.

This is a found poem. Source material: King, Stephen. Carrie. New York: Anchor, 2011. 72-79. Print.