At dusk-time I set out
over the gullies and old logging tracks
to find something that I must have
an answer or a resolution.
Emerging from the tangled forest
I crossed battlefield expanses
bleached smooth bone-branches scattered wide
And, dreaming wet, red dreams of blood and sacrifice,
I walked on and on and could not stop
carrying in clenched fist,
for unknown purpose, a sharp and pale stick—
And when it was too dark to read the time
with it I marked my outer limit and returned;
that long, reluctant road back in
seeming so much longer than the outward path had been.
No resolution found
and back in mundane company again
my fine and crying blood-dreams
blacken, dry, and flake away
to leave me cold, and white and bare
weak, without protection
unarmored of my despair.