Paul Otremba

There’s a moment in the Herzog I love

after the bear has been opened, after the trash

bags are filled and emptied on the table,

then the bodies accounted for, divined for

the bad faith of each puncture, each defensive

laceration, after the tape is heard (no visuals

to stage at this last encounter) and the heroics sung,

the appropriate morals unspooled for us,

when our singer — the coroner — comes

to the end of his rehearsals, his dumbshow

of instructive gesticulations, and the scene

should be over but the camera sticks,

asks for one more testimonial, the tender

indecency of a single sincere moment

when he doesn’t know what comes next,

or what he should do now with his hands.

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