I refuse to find proof
of innocence. The halls of court

are narrow and dim, the air reeks of age
and names forgotten. They shot him

in plain sight: seventeen witnesses
to the cry for help, begging

for another twenty-four hours
to breathe. He was given thirty bullets

to the chest, said the coroner. Points
of entry riddling the body

like a constellation. Plain blue sky broken
by an exclamation of Please!

that unflinching velocity
of a body left without a choice

but to run. A black revolver blooms
within the bag. Books remain scattered

by the road. There was an attempt at escape.
They will call this evidence

as they pronounce him dead.
They will place the cold slab of his heart

on a scale and swear
how it weighs heavier

than a feather.