• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 02
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That view's a strange atlas, with roads unfamiliar,
though we must have walked them to get here;
though the red dust on my shoes matches the haze we left behind.

The air sits calm up here. Settles bare skin cold
though the coat you offer is thick and oily and the rain runs off it;
though we match panting breath for breath and

yellow eyes search for the yellow eye unblinking back
though the crying speaks to the night and the children of the night;
though the height would be a flying, if I were brave and ran alone.

Rotted meat is a hot life stench, departing, down the hill
and I can't follow that hip-swaying tail anymore,
and that sunk-step gait was never meant to have led,
and I watch my guts steam into mist, and the sky is grey, and I hope you fed well.