On the run in the half-light

The roads are lined
with golden, open
mouths; millions of
them yawning in
the morning, calling
to their ripe tongues
the workers that will
carry their children.
They were the same

as the ones on the suit
I found you wearing in the
wood that day you
offered to serve me.
We weren’t dressed
for it—you polished,
me barefoot and wet—
but we climbed and ran
and feared looking back
until my sister took
your place. The path

softened and sweetened
and split into miles
of hexagons that
cushioned our steps.
I promised you,
no one is home, I saw
no brood or nectar
or capped winter
stores. With ears
to the wind we let
ourselves stop and
collected the marcasite
bird points we simply
couldn't leave behind.