We meet at a hook in the path.
You lick your puncture, don’t look up,
send the baggie down the hill in the wind.

Should I interfere?
rip out the venom you just sent in?

I can relate.
I too have sat in the dirt
at the edge of a dream
puncturing bruises,
begging the sea to rise up
and swallow me.

– Catherine Zickgraf