i. man lives alone with camera and open
window. man photographs everything: open
window, steam, a glass of water, the dark
spaces between the trees. man takes
camera and shard of glass into the trees
and doesn’t come back for a year.
ii. farmhouse and the dog outside of it. the
hay makes my legs itch but i do this,
still. the ax handle blisters my hands but
i do this, still. splinters under my fingernails
i pick out with teeth. the dog barks into the
field at night but we’re all too scared to look.
the field is flat in the morning and we hold our
shoulders up like chopping wood.
iii. ran until legs couldn’t anymore. nothing
belongs to us - we all belong to each other.
the football field was dark and then it wasn’t
anymore. the fire was a mouth. the score
was zero to nothing and my hands were
shaking. your mouth was a breeze over a lit
iv. i let the water come up to my ankles while
you cast your line. i let the water come up to
my knees. my jeans are wet and my heels
sting. i let the water come up to my belly and
don’t say anything until your line reaches
me. it tangles my ankles and pulls them
together. i let the water come over my head.
v. i was the thing at the tree-line. a little wild
and trying not to be, talking about a change
and the way the moon comes through the
clouds like a spotlight. my teeth are so sharp
tonight. i can hear the wolves and