The sun bruises what grows
too much. With an amputated
branch snatched from the roadside
in hand, become king of the dead
woods, piss on any old log, eat
whichever bush berry looks
most sinful. Become the bear
bounding uphill in secrecy
to peel away your prey’s skin
and feed on the guts. It’s fine
to pretend about scars. Cut
your hair, speak some very
new growl. I can trap you
as bear or man. I can tear
an abyss in your stomach
when on the twig strewn path
just before the summit
I whisper I have a gun.
No comments:
Post a Comment