A stayed partition, the unwelcome place:
I draped hide round the hem of the wild and was.
There were holes in the outside pasture, fool’s gold
in the handfuls of dirt. I could have barreled my fortune there,
but the day was bruising, and the cleaved night pervasive,
rare in its fall. In the woods near the farmer,
three fingers missing to a baler and his deference,
wild dogs wore passions on their chests,
the garter snake weaved and bound the mid grass,
and I ran under the power lines, blown in sway, home to our kitchen,
a cratered embrace and flame.
From the tree line, an inaudible birth echoed,
a near darkness humming grace like bone meeting bone
for the first time in ages.
David Schaefer is an MFA candidate in the New Writers Project at the University of Texas- Austin. He is a reader for Bat City Review and an editor for Brawler. He is from Wisconsin.