I am a terrible daydreamer; I consider
possibilities. And suddenly, I bear your old silence.
Cold filaments brush the sky. How did
you leave when you weren’t even here.
The birds serenade darkly, their shrieks buried
under the hunter’s sun. They alight in dangerous circles.
You’re a native to your ailments. Holes in the
sky so large they orchestrate a dissonance
that tethers me to you. I am flailing.
There are the birds again. So black, a hoard of nightmares.
I thought once, we ran through the same
woods together. That we had been betrayed so deeply,
we would be safe with one another.
What bucked the final shot.
In my descent, a die tumbled warily,
knowing you are the hunter, your aim reckless, precise.
