In Minneapolis trees are twirled with lights as if they
still spin some kind of Christmas. I guess no one wanted
to unstring them, or maybe folks hope the glow stretches to
the street, which is warmed by walking people. We count
them. All the vigils and whistles. We witness the
shaky phone footage of masked men discharging bullet
after bullet. Somewhere a mountain bike wounds
its way through the dirt of a forest. I want to
see anything else. An adventurous GoPro. I want to see
a name stay a name instead of a poorly-punned slogan. How
it must have ached, Alex’s recently broken rib, the not many
days since his dog died. In all the posthumous fame they
take away the important parts. No one’s ever got
it right, no one’s ever caught the angle. That’s what it’s like
in this country of every take. Can you make him out? He’s
tunneling through trees, tracking deep treads of Vs, a
man whose impact is a rough line in the woods, fast as deer.