Nostalgia is a volatile chemical. The monarch butterfly of neurotoxins.
We set small fires to prevent larger ones. We don't want to be dead.
The aftermath looks like a fuel drum, like keeping pace.
You will not, after all, get that ride in a helicopter.
It's two cuts to the brain stem, it's the scythe of electricity.
The frequencies only dogs can hear, the whistle at dusk.
The red light pulsing through the fog
an insubstantial repository of soft final words.
It was never an animal bite.
You were always going to find her, and find her,
and lose her again. Like the tides pulsing endlessly. Like pouring out blood.
Put her down. Let her go.