Drifters, if they could be.
Sometimes, when they think
no one is watching,
they near the barbed wire.
Hooves and hooves and hooves.
A silent choir, a mass
of muscle-held cellmates.
Their heads are full of high grass
and long shadows. They dream
of lowland lions grifting gazelle.
Behold the moiré bolting
of the chain-gang jumpsuits
-dust and dust and dust-
safe in their target-striped caps!