Universe Where We Weren’t Artists, Four reincarnations, Max Ritvo

I am given a reward:
You two will pick
where I rest.

We are three sweet hunters gazing
at the fat-soaked bog.

Down each gun-hole
we seek the glass lens

that would explode the image
of our prey.

A cuff of air.
We look up to
the hilarious moon.

I fall down in white mud.

When the breath starts to be ragged,
tickle me, my deepest beloveds--
so that the raggedness becomes confused.