The pinwheel spins, spins, reels and haunts my dreams /
They're coming out of the huddle, my team /
"Pinwheel," I hear in a voice that's like screams
from a realm unreal to the touch like steam:
It's dark in here, and I can't feel without
my sense of calm, my sense of timeliness,
so I stand in the pile–palms sweat out doubt–
as I wait for the call, and I'm hapless:
And up they swooshed, breaking through the huddle;
with grimaces and guns they shot us down;
The wind wheezed as I turned to a rubble
of a man, as the pinwheel spun around:
"Pinwheel," I hear in a gentle child's voice;
It's second down? We'll punt: we have no choice.