A poet says it was injury time
And for the dance of an injury
As his body tried to dodge fate
And would make a  fine dance.

His crab would clinch  finality,
Its tentacles holding the body
But new drugs may rain injury.
You may perfect a dance more.

That woman goes high on hills
Nearer understanding heaven
Pouring thin rain of thunder’s
Pellets on random terror boys.

Why terror rained at  random
On a green stick body of mind
Pellets would know after snow,
If a woman went high on hills.

Mountains are nearer heaven.
Here the understanding rains
And mankind perfects dances.
It is its injury time, crab time.