The Beasts of Late Winter

crooked wires and concrete slabs

with a light dusting of April snow.

yellow street lights line the distance

boots, caked in mud, heavy

like the gaze of beasts.

I breathe clouds and cold drills into my skin

whatever paper thin layer is left.


trees, like soldiers, guard tracks that lead away

to the gap, where it waits

eyes, caverns, tempt me

cold, alone I (might) flounder, flutter

that glimmer of self, detached

narrow, shrouded, out of reach, this

need, this,



but I’m scattered like ashes on a beach at midnight

the water eating pieces a little at a time.

You call to me,

gentle face, brooding under the guise of night.


our hair is wetted with snow as the beast in shadow does its laps

sticks snapping as

I shudder, wonder why we’re here, like this and

falter (slip) hand reaching.

cold air fills my lungs and you

pulling, pulling.


the beast settles into its nest

and it all falls down, back into the cavern

we sometimes fall into, too.


Casey Reinhardt is a writer and husky lover from Buffalo, NY. She toils for a tech company by day and dreams up madness by night, most of which makes its way into a story or poem. Some will remain in the dream-realm for all eternity. She frequently escapes to Canada for adventure while reading Margaret Atwood on repeat.

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