By Aaron Suranofsky
Beetles mine your skull for consciousness crust. Ants sheer off blood glued wedges of fur. Worms inject out the ground’s skin to clean any splotches contrasting the ivory. Skeleton coiled to the tip of your tail as if asleep in a den, you lay flat on wide open stones. Why’s your little leg bent a severed yard away? Locked in potential energy– potential jump to safety. Did the whistle whip your ears like a chain, your easy, bird-catcher muscles shocked? Petrified on a wheel-gouged cleave of steel, did your body quake to the pulverizing metal stomps, heavier, louder, blasting over– with only enough time to internalize the danger. With too many hours to curl into the pain where the tuft of fox pomp wafted along a year ago; springy meander a hair heavier than air, floating to a seated rest, pluming a tail flare. Its glance slacked on me unimpressed. A breath of orange igniting the tracks, blown out by the nearby weeds.
