Rust I watch the hills. The moon rushes nervously through navy, pock-marked roof, The definite limit. The hoot of a loon, or some other monstrous bird Hastens anxious sneakers Hunting treasure in the night. I don't need to sleep. I stare at stuttering shadows, Throwing my awkward shape, Leaving my dysmorphia rendered Uncanny in my stolen wolf pelt hood; And evading physics in the flame, Cooks arrow-driven flesh of bears... Oh Ursula, my love – what have I done to you? His fingers are withered and bloody, But mine, my real ones, Are soft and warm and safe. My wordless, blameless slave, Scrabbles hurriedly at loveless rocks... Someone is behind. Quick! Back to the hills! Run from the bolt of the cold blood foe. He'll never win... Not with me behind him. I watch the hills. Coded in unbelieveable salmon and gold comes the morning light. I know what there is to be done This brief, harsh day. A questionable blessing In severe and simple lands.