Low, stubbled hills. My boots
sweep the brush.
The air kicked like a dog.
When birds perch on a slipstream
I think, I know what animal I am.
I’ve made an orange scrub-scoured
tent my home. At night, shadows rise
like Whac-A-Moles and when they do
I name them what they are: orange
porcupine, jar of orange pencils, shrub.
In the tent, I’m an island and everything on it:
Mosquitos. Dead citrus tree. Lemonade
stand. A long-beached whale
repurposed as a hut. At times I step in and wear
the bones like skin. Except they’re bones,
and when it rains I wonder where it is
my skin has gone. Is this what it’s like
to be wet inside?