The criminal is young and impossible
There was a death in the park and the men came running after it, their legs mysterious with speed, and
circling like weather they found him hard-packed on the dirt in the clearing near the fountain. His eyes
were utensils, strict and sharp. The men upset the dry ground clockwise, heads low in disguise.
The boy was still and his hair was clean. As the men narrowed their circle around him, the sun moved
and made the fountain hot and made the clearing cold. The fissure that the sun forgot. Like metal
the men approached the steady arm, the steady knife. The boy began to cut.
He took his hair. The blade serrated full of curls. The men then sat to see the curls lodged in the roots,
caught in the dirt. The sun returned and lit the scattered hair, the men’s unspeaking backs and chins,
the boy: He bared his eyes to fear and heat, released his arm, and rose.
