The Hunters
When it snowed the hunters gathered
around the base of a crimson tree.
The drifts climbed under the lamps and
the night sky filled their mouths.
One of them sipped blood from a coffee mug.
Rows of stark yellow teeth ground as they talked,
and their breath burned holes in the air.
Each dragged behind him the souls of his kills,
wispy tendrils mourning lives unlived, howling
in concert with the wolves and the wind.
The sun strained into the sky, but the gloom
burned the light, like the body of a friend
that is cold. Blood saw no reason here. It flowed
freely, like water from a hose down the slope
of a street. Elsewhere, there was a tea kettle
whistling, and this particular dawn, it was
the sound of death coming to breakfast.