Sara Fitzpatrick Comito
Dark Island Landing In forest edge dark the god screeches, the frogs, the night lilies, the open throated children to the suckling sky are my dreams of being broken of being backwards on a boat over the wake, the huff of an incessant horse that smells like earnestness and it is fear or trust that is his food. He grazes indifferently for he forgets the taste of grass. .
46