THE CENTAUR EATING WINDSHIELD GLASS

The centaur eating windshield glass
Munches reflectively in blue coplight stammer,
tongue dripping. Like swallowing
your own teeth, a mouthful. His whitened eyes
separate: independent beams
grazing first the birthday cake
mashed in its flattened box, then, thrown
across the floorboards, you. You blink.
The centaur is a cop
with the body of a deer:
spindled legs that crumpled instantly
and heaved the rolling weight into the windshield's
collapsing hammock. Another cop asks
can you move? The first sweeps fractured glass
into his glove, appears to offer