Two small boys stand in the forest,
huddled around the burning husk
of an old go-kart.

A mute snow falls,
sanding away the sharp shapes
of evening.

As the tired light fades
back into frayed rows of black pine,
the boys begin to silently sway.

And soon, they nestle
in nightshade, are bewitched
by the murmur of milk.

Their eyes reflect the Moon.
Not her blush. Her distance.

Transfixed by the twitch of fire,
the still of night, the boys stare
into the metal husk at their feet.

Their hands begin to flutter
as in a death dance, moth-like,
delicate as rice paper cranes.

Small dim creatures,
cliff birds, hollow with desire,
tangled in night drapes
and flame.