XCV

He hunts in the night that cries black tears

Maddened by the filth beneath his finger nails:

His thoughts are motionless. In the forest by a creek

Dressed in winter lace, he sits with his long memory.

When he fixes you with those eyes dark and clouded

Like an infant’s, it feels like communion.

This murderer with hair like the down of ducklings,

How will you ever forget him when he leaves you?