False Prerogatives

The Shadows chase me closely, and they come
not as my own but as the children born
of the sweat in my eyelids. They circle

around me, the way soldiers would patrol
their hostage. Buffoons! The palms of my flayed
hands are minefields. Ah, here comes the smug hound —

the treetop creatures mock its quick return
to dust. I can’t say I do not regret
this contract of sure demise; the screaming

bygones could not care any less than toads
mate during the storm. Hah! The joke is on
you. Weep, if you must: The Shadows are yours.