to walk on barbed wire, to try to move ahead, getting stuck and tugging, pieces left behind, flecks of skin, blood on metal, the forget-me-not pieces, the pieces you balance yourself to retrieve, once again getting caught up, pierced and loathing the capture, relishing it, moving on, moving through, despite it, because of it, “the difference between moving and moving away”, never weeping, only jarring loose, shaking the limb, with some measure of grace, with some measure of compassion, even in pain, to go on, pluck meat from the skewer, and move.