Strange the way it changes

Like the direction of 

wind in the trees—

wind against the gallows. 

There is a hollow knocking 

of something forgotten,

an itch just beneath 

the skin. I wonder if

you can feel it, too:

that precipice just beyond

sight. I can feel its claws

against my back,  through 

the skin, clicking against 

each rib. It is going 

to drag me despite the 

thrashing, despite the 

screams, despite the slick

darkness of blood under

its feet. And all I can 

think to say is

I understand.