Unwary

Its hunger the devouring dark
of a new-moon midnight,
we feed it,
and feed it again —
an open vein,
salt eye and skin,
sorrow and shame —
and it feasts
yet first grows thinner
for a time —
a lying in wait,
but always testing the air
for thin wires of light —
measuring the most minute movement,
ever ready to take us unaware.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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