You huddle into a shield or breastplate,
a whisper in the dark summoning your kin 
one by one along the frontier. In your kingdom,
errant knight of undergrowth, even in your gut
fear, you’re always on the verge of a new border
or at the edge before crossing into the interior
of false prophecies. Desert blooms or berries
fall into marshy hush. Around a sharp curve
planetary lights spring out of nothingness.