Poem From The Archives

Evening Walk in Winter

The light in the woods disappears quickly,
and we’re not fast enough to catch it.
It’s dark before we reach the border,

and we can hear that it’s a late night at
the slaughterhouse. The cows are tired
and hungry and puzzled. They haven’t
seen their field for days and miss it.

I sneak the heating on, while you compose
yourself in the backyard with a cigarette.
Radiators buckle and groan. The raw smell
of silage and blood comes in on your coat.

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