Who hears hyenas laugh beneath a wounded moon? We are small, man, small. Sweet taste of pears and your absent breath. Let go of unread books, of souvenirs from unremembered holidays. Switch off the news, the flames, the words. Look to the sky between the trees; windstill and clear.
This poem first appeared in the anthology Dark Confessions (ed. Matthew M. C. Smith) Black Bough Poetry 2021.