Deerfield, Erasure


Nathan Hauke

          orange                     the current                catches
 
four cut dock spiles.                       lighter when the water goes wide
 
          undercurrent             thin and white
 
                    Traces of        black,            pulpy leaves caught in
 
my throat
 
 
the telephone
 
 
          blood soaking into      carpet.
 
A stale drift of snow             ice              scuffs
 
 
          right up to the edge
 
 
                              hang, right out over.