The secret is to run.
Footsteps become the dull timpani; develop their own subtleties, ‘til each shuddering footfall
Is a crashing orchestral hit.
It will blossom, daubed in hot mud, burned in peat.
Emerging steaming and thatched;
A whimsy; wistful, wiry Thing.
A wisp of it curls and settles on hair.

They'll take that hair, turn it, thread it through exact needles,
With caution, measure.
Care.
No more than this, dip it in shimmering glass, drip it with mercury,
The old poison, full of malice and muscle.
They'll dress it in white and crown it. Better for knowing?
Hand it a scalpel, and a palm to the face to turn the other cheek.

The beast of tar will run,
Under Jupiter's thunder, feet slapping on the tiles of an empty colosseum.
Lurching down a corridor of white marble and fire,
Shedding muck on the walls.