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.