After Marcus Licinius Crassus
defeated the army of Spartacus,
he crucified 6,000 men.

First you run! Fly!
Turn yourself inside out.
Another time you escape.

On the map it is precise and rectilinear as a chessboard, but driving past you would hardly notice it, a boundary line or ragged margin, a shallow swale that cups a simple trickle of water, less rill than rivulet, more gully than dell, a tangled ditch grown up throughout with a fearsome assortment of wildflowers and bracken. There is no fence, though here and 

Sawdust soaked in kerosene,
storm-fallen wood, ash-flurries
over the stoked bed of a dead fire.

How stupid Penelope's suitors must have been,
Each morning as they elbowed for a place
Near her, and cocked their wits, eyeing each other,

Good old Paul—when he might have been kind
to a kid he, made a pass instead.

Well literally zillions of passes

Beginning with a fundamental, which
Sounds tonic depths, then reasons up from there,
The will to truth parts company with prayer

Of Love's discrete occasions, we
observe sufficient catalogue,
a likely sounding lexicon

As the retreating Bructeri began to burn their own 
possessions, to deny to the Romans every sustenance but 
ashes,

I said something nonsensical to them
and they mocked back, "but we're your one design,"
or "you're our one design"—which was it?