prophecy is a landfill full of spiked
things
my license to kill is not imaginary
is not limited in space and time
does not wrinkle or dissolve
in the woods Scott lost his knife again
so I hand him my own knocked out
tooth in exchange for a hand shake
when he climbs out of reach
I take an axe to the tree until it
shakes
the feathers from the black birds
the monster has been ahead of us
for a long time now
and remains ahead
when morning comes, we carve
our own leather costumes while the tin
colored
fish endlessly dart past—
a series of choreographed blades
the luster of new language
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