the destroyer > text > Russel Swensen
The dog won’t hunt. I won’t hunt either.
I braid the leashes together. At some point
the winter too must fail. So hold your little
hand. Hold it right there and do not move.
Even if it tells you to.
The car won’t start. The fire is the echo
of the trees. Or it is a possum in the attic
trying very hard to fall in love. Succeeding
And something not underneath but with
-in. Delicate weevil turning in thick cream,
smallest comma in the litter. How did you
get in here.
It is not a wreath. And I am
not an animal. The fire moves up the hill.