Behind the small ship, the man in a cape
with a broken lantern, the zig zags of light that catch at
my eye, make my nose grow wet.
But I begin here –

his footsteps moving, his smell among the leaves,
the fear in his blood that makes mine hot. He is lost,
lost again, shouting into the wind and soaked by rain.
His words are all endings, all Hail Marys and Amens.
But I begin now –

though I too had a before: a long brown story
that started in a cave, that pawed the earth and swallowed bees.
In front, is a baby bawling into the night, a glitter of gold
and a parchment scroll. I could eat the baby.
I could begin there –

but the man’s a better feast. I watch him through the trees,
rub my fur against the dark. This is where he ends.
Tomorrow, he’s a pile of bones in the sun. tomorrow that baby
will be sixteen years old. I could begin then –