Steven Toussaint

After Denise Levertov Must be a stumbler, bleeder, as some floccus remains here, carded into ragged sleeves by barbed wire. I’d believe in a God who can learn to work new spindles, new pupils uncomprehending the reasons light rosins in winter, and still spill clumsily, bleeding. Now drizzle caught in oily pockets loads the fleece with wealth. I’ve often wondered what the fence keeps out in a country bereft of predators. I long ago reconciled instinctive sympathy for the perfect innocence of animals with an equally ardent carnivory. Arms retreat guilt-free through the widest breach in the garment, having chosen a meal the stauncher faiths call impassible, withdrawing to empty folds. I hope you feel safe when you die.