Neil Shepard




The News

Numb and number
to the number
of deaths in an hour.

The somber weight of data –
how many struck by stray
bullets, how many

land mines, live
wires, grenades – I
understand fleetingly. How many

dead of carbine fire
on the L.A. freeway,
or under the Golden Arches,

bloodied beside the red-
nosed clown. Lumber-
ing crosstown, what number

fall down man-holes, what number
crack skulls on black ice –
where blood in Rorschach

puddles is anyone’s guess.
What number ends this
numbness? One. Who,

falling, locks my gaze,
says, number me
among those you praise.