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
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—
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.