Dread Youth
The size between the monster
in front of us & the monument
behind us is a wish we whisper.
The mosquito sun drinks out
our veins. A sudden rainstorm
turns over the wine, floods
the welts left by the wolf, left
by the birch strangled underneath
our rotten waistcoats. Your father,
the gunsmith, chases us reluctantly,
ramrods his boots through the moss.
We wait for the night to bayonet
itself over the landscape, feel a chant
forming low in our throat. The lighthouse
perfects our vices, shows the coastline,
shows the rocks bullied by our feet.
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