Fletcher

Her face in the wood grain
looks outward
at the backward world
and twisted trees
all over some
dark hillside

I am letting on I know something
and she is scowling
figuring me out

I picture all the prolonged hunts
where we couldn’t help but try
to end our appetites
and now remembering
the glory days
I tolerate my mindlessness
a little less

the slush kicks up in winter
treated alleyways
and the orange moon
is currency in the pocket
of our gravity

it does not spend at street stalls
selling warmer coats
abundant on the wire racks
and torn up gloves that cover up
the knuckle bone

I would break a window to get out of here
and the escape would be forgotten
like a dream would be

take the five minutes found like an arrowhead
and sharpen it
until the edge diminishes

something so fine
you can barely feel it
cut you