Poets

then you'd see this squatting body under the archway, crooked fingers dug into his forehead, craters driven into his skull by frost, a

hundreds of gnats and midges buzzed around the flames, starving insects swarmed, as restless as my pulse, from cracks in the earth, from bony backs glassy wings grew, how it teemed

this is the story of the embryo's fear, what he had been, recurring over and over again, a downward glance