ISSUE: Spring 2015
She cannot hide
her line of footprints in the snow.
The trail leads from her window—
across the blank page of winter
field, across the barbed wire
fence and its posted sign that says No
Trespassing, across the night’s
quiet deer path—and ends at his barn door.
At this late hour her only witness
is the private eye of
the moon, which hides
its voluminous histories of human
secrets—hers,
and ours, too.
There is nothing between us
but the night. The hunter’s appetite
is instinct; it dwells deep
and urges you: Unleash
the wild animal that you are.
Unbury yourself.
