July, Night
That evil may decompose like the hamster buried in a shoebox in the garden's earth.

That the fright destined for others come to me tonight.

I see her, this woman who for hours stared at the tv
on and now screams at another body in twilight
immobile in the colourless armchair.
October, Night
Accept this silence: the word caught in the dark of the throat like a stiffened animal, like
the stuffed boar that sparkled in the cellar during October storms. Livid and woven with
straw, the dry heart, smokeless, yet against the flash of lightning that nailed the door,
each time in the same exact point where death had begun: the futile backstepping,
body aflame, the hunter's kick on its side.

Close your eyes. Think: hare and fox and wolf, call the beasts,
chased down they race
over the flatlands and are in the slingshot of dying or falling
asleep exhausted inside the
den where only the hunted know true night, true breath.