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And
out
the
window
the
sparrows
drop
smoking
off
the
wire
.
They
roll
him
out
on
a
Gurney
,
still
jerking
,
face
frosted
white
.
Corrosion
.
Battery
acid
.
The
technician
turns
to
me
.
Watch
that
other
moose
.
I
know
him
.
Hold
him
!
It
's
not
a
will-power
thing
any
more
.
Hold
him
!
Damn
.
No
more
of
these
boys
without
Seconal
.
The
clamps
bite
my
wrists
and
ankles
.
The
graphite
salve
has
iron
filings
in
it
,
temples
scratching
.
He
said
something
when
he
winked
.
Told
me
something
.
Man
bends
over
,
brings
two
irons
toward
the
ring
on
my
head
.
