You there in the corner of the forest–
These are the words of moss covered stones.
Remember when the canopy was where you started?
When thermal updrafts created a prey of space
for you to fall upon,
feasting and fasting at once?
Don’t you know that regret
is an opera with no audience?
A banquet of one is still a banquet.
Thieves will always dine with you,
glow midnight blue
in the shadow-doubt,
then they’ll honey the gears, and complicate a simple plan
with the machinations of stars in combat.
Your implosion is a darkness hidden, sucking.
Desire is the branch which snares a fool’s heart,
in a hunter’s chest
a pig’s can easily replace its beating.
originally published in Badlands