Robert Hamilton

I move slowly in my armor of jade.
My torso clatters with slates. Cut to running water.
The rapids. The smell of moss, wet igneous rock.
Cut to furrows. We knew this would be confusing
but the heliotropic plants can still surprise,
the defensive postures, the hackles
running down the spine. I stand in my line
to drum you in, to precede you. Cars idle
in their black row. Kennedy half-dollars sit
on either eye, blank like suns, pinwheel-hot.