A goat’s eye looks back at her
through the bars overlapping
the storm drain. The smell
of mud and other damp
and dark sources reach
through the confines
not satisfied with being
underground.
They are kept there as a punishment
for saying the same things
repeatedly and then complaining
no one understands the message.
Talons of dead birds jut out
of the filth like rock formations
the flesh long dissolved
they are now entirely claw.
She is afraid of what is down
there because of all she couldn’t
see, but still she kneels there
at the opening and tries to
find a reason never to look back.
Teleporting Typewriter 