Triangular head with mounted nostrils that smell blood and ridiculous fingers, the body flat and dry while he crunches through our backyard underbrush.

Form-fitting glass molds, filled and filling. The glow of blood, the color of a fight in the dark. Inside a head, film and eraser shavings.

New mouths are opening all over me. It reminds me of having trouble breathing: gasps from the gaps across my body.

Have you ever been or imagined yourself caked in mud, drying in the sun? I'm drying in the sun, caked in blood, love. Bodies lay around, all around, insides everywhere and eyes still wide. Insides lay on forest floor, quiet, close to sleep and calm.

If I were straining at the end of a lead, with a ragged woman holding only a blackened head out, I’d gnaw anything. Blood catapults out of everything. The trees don't move, scared and staring. The only sound the sound of terror, running.

In the woods: bliss. Favorable dogs lashed up. Barking at any heaven that stumbles by. Loving by. Entry of any kind. Meat stringing off any skeleton. Ripe meat, red with readiness.