crayola in the outening

clearly this was big magic, when the skin
held sway over the sky. a wolf sitting in
its bath robe mumbled "what the fuck?"
& lost what little remained, in the beaten

dark gone down, orange bleeding around
the edges, necks, cowling, the one rubric
that still worked was "run." stones took
to the air - fell - & were rarely ever seen

in the same light again. restless, crayola
fidgeted in a folding chair waiting for her
words - no walking log - & no wet naps -
& in the outening her eyes ceded sensing.

Jeffrey Little | Mudlark No. 15
Contents | crayola, nearing