Wherever there was a hanging,
There was a consent.
A watcher or two or ten thousand.
They had saliva in their cavities.
They had tasks that were to-do.
They had dirt on their soles.
They had yawned open a morning.
Knees and retinas and maws and joints.
These are what are in them of us who float.
We can sing out our eyes,
a thread of common concepts that bind us onlookers.
Where are the others?
As brittle as eyes gurgling among the plagued.
Born in Austin, Will Pewitt has taught fiction at a variety of institutions from the University of Arizona, where he earned his M.F.A. to the University of North Florida, where he currently he currently teaches global literature. His work has appeared in over a dozen journals, most recently The Literary Review. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.