Flyover of the huntsman, crouched
brutally on the outcropping, looking
small with his hands invisible in his
big cloak. His head is in its usual place.
He’s not alone. Sound waves at ex-
tremely low levels cut through him
constantly, to say nothing of light;
he is a dwelling in inconstant motion.
The minor streams he steps through
and the trees he ignores all murmur
through his spine, brain, fingers, eyes.
When the moss catches his attention,
his step hitches, the profound green
jolting him from his own high body.
At the Waterbed Factory
No rifles allowed.
Things are work-
ing as they should
on sluttish time.
The eternal re-
turn of the same
right this second.
and go without
Tom Snarsky is a Noyce Teaching Fellow at Tufts University in Medford, MA. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in H_NGM_N, aglimpseof, foam:e, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Fur-Lined Ghettos, and elsewhere. He posts work occasionally at http://quarrellary.wordpress.com/ and tweets @TomSnarsky. He lives in Braintree, MA.