Skirting so wide

Catchrun in the deep wood

Fur against mesh and wire
Licks out at the follow,
Some flesh we could not call
But for the pressing, so much
For us to bear out here

It is the tumbling dark
Sent to course and recourse

The matte look in her eye
Bent low to sip up dregs
From a small stream, stinking
Of kinder persuasions

Fear chalked into the fang
And us skirting so wide,
Trading drips with distance
Each cavalier moment

Each hand upon her head,
Saying we knew nothing

Setting against bedrock,
Backs to cursory calls
Pealing into the night,
The stare of a blank cage
Between brook and body

A reaping through the air

Matthew Hill currently lives and works in Minnesota. This is his first publication.