Cinnamon the Hunter

You’re in the pantry after mackerel bones and blots of shade dotting the floor
through the blind. Black lustrous head in my beard and I’m reading. Cinnamon what
if I’d lacquered in lime every robin you dropped at the door / every whitebelly mouse /
we’d have a menagerie named M. You brought me a buzzing locust this May as Goodbye.
Cinnamon you headed up the artery that leads once more to the lake.

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