the antelope leave their hearts
in their dressers. wear nothing but silk slips.
a tear in the ceiling is getting bigger.
i bought the hunting knife not to feel like a man
but to sever as one. cleaving the night
into scattered stained wood. shipwreck. shrine.
drapery. a curtain. creature hooves making piano
of the sky. i carry the knife in my pocket.
cradled. little egg. tongue. haven't you ever
felt your softness turn razor?
stab a tree & watch it sway before
spilling on the sidewalk. eventually
the knife holds me. tells me where & when
another creature is exhibiting potential
to be made into daguerreotypes. i keep
a catelog of everywhere i have slept.
under an eyelid. beneath a folding moon.
in the sun's cough. comet laughter.
knife takes me elsewhere to a blood stream.
instead of smooth stones the river bed
is lined with hearts. have you ever been
followed into your own nightmare? my shadow
abandonded me & merged with a tree's.
sirloin in the trees. we weren't hungry like that.
not like that either. something more like
a desire to poke a hole in a great balloon.
never leave me, i tell the knife.
it doesn't acknowledge me. afterall,
the knife only thinks of feathers & wind
&, on occasion, how & if it will every be used
to piece a desctruction back together.
i catch no antelope or deer or even squirrels.
return to the hollow with only a knot of hair
loosed from my own head. the river thrums.
the fish become mammals. the mammals
find knives under their pillows.