Home again with all the tiny mirrors
struggling for breath on the wall.
Last night: moths overhead, thick snake
dead at my feet. I’m the one with the wedge
at my side, the one to rid the house
of the ogre, encroaching. Last night
I stole your winter coat (plaid, denim)
from the woodpile then ran in bright sun
to bury it in a swampy gully. I woke
with a start, having killed something mild
and not worthwhile, dismayed I did not
first rummage the pockets for something
I might like for myself.