Issue 199, Winter 2011
On leftovers ana breakfast like the spleenish wulf the wéstenas chase.
He sets out hungry, nose in the wind, up the wulfhleoþu.
After a luckless trek, he gilleþ; and gaunt companions answer
(Greyed out, thin as yarrow stalks
Or like bees bereaved by a honey thief,
Their mouths agape— jaws like hacked tree trunks).
He gellende and they gellende across the desert forum.
He standing and they standing blinking sympathy at one another.
He complaining and they complaining then mutually turning away—
Comforted. Wita sceal geþyldig.
He turning back and they turning back on ófost.
Earm ánhaga hiding his wretchedness.