you are holding me.
Inside is a wolf running across the ice.
—Cassie Lewis
Ha, nah, brawn ka?
He looks at it. He thinks
about it. But he cannot
say it. Ice age rivulets.
Torpedoes dun as burghers
aim for the rhapsody of
dust above the plains
above the docks above
the ice caps amid
screaming rockers. Arch-
nemeses. Amanuenses. A
man you insist you trust-
ed in terms of agelessness
makes meatballs potatoes (the
cow having already been fatted).
