Too much night in the Vienna woods, trunks crumble
into the faces of boars. Boy up
all night reading about crises,
his milk skin dated between the eyes,
the way skepticism twists skin.
I see you in buildings, I say.
I see you in red foxes that
scatter through jeweled woods outside
Chernobyl. In the light
jutted through clouds which don’t rise
but curve round like (just say it) heaven.
The child twists her bedsheets.
Turn the night out, she commands.
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