From the side of the hill
my sight captures flat pasture,
part orchard,
part garden.
A full moon illuminates
my ready-trotted route
glistening with mud.
At its end, a rolled hollow,
a lit tree-
bed and breakfast.
This is what I live for,
how I survive.
I don't ask for much,
ignorant to what's on the other side.
I know my limits.
Further up the slope
there are more mouths,
dug out, living in brambles,
a natural, comfortable camouflage-
a bed of roses.
When I sleep,
in the blink of an eye
you vanish,
dreams exploding blood and gore
to which I once bore witness.
I try to ignore the intrusion.
What goes on in daylight
belongs to you.
How can you live in Paradise
with death on your side?
The bulk of me shudders to think!
Whatever happened to passion?
You're pleased as a starved flea
finding a host.
Everything has its predator-
yours is your own!
Sniffing the air,
I smell your cold heart
raw and pumping,
seeking a pastime
to glitter your world
at our expense.
Eat what you've already murdered,
bought, hoarded in your larder!
You don't need another corpse
on your conscience.
If you lived simply by instinct,
what would you do?