We are also getting used to living in the margins,

being gnawed at by an anxiety we have no name for,


governed by atavistic programming based on your

suburbs still being pasture, your wheatfields forests.


We’re not unlike you; we’re frequently dazzled by something bright

hurtling our way in the darkness; then we’re just another


part of the wreckage. Unusual hungers, ones you don’t

all understand, have forced us out of the shadows and


into the open, into pockets on the edge of your cities, parks,

roadside verges. It amazes you, doesn’t it, seeing us there?


Just imagine us with hands instead of hooves, with

hydrocarbons, fire. Picture us gripping the wheel.


first published in Visual Verse, 2016


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