Issue 157, Winter 2000
I can't even capture your hands
or what carries us limb by limb.
In the dream I know what I am
as I fashion a shank from my own thigh bone
the ground gave up at first thaw.
When I sink it deep inside the hide
the click of bone against bone
will work like instinct the animal to me—
tracks all over the white page and something
I've forgotten, a blue light stalling.