Said what is customary.
What rations were left got rationed.
What perished I dumped
at the campground where the foxes divvied salt
jerky mannered and
stalking all night, dead reckoning
the forest, furrow
by ridge by radio parts, swift remnants
we make of staving.
Have made. And having made, stow elsewhere,
anywhere else, like
embarrassed in the granary, the heft of
your dry mouth, this
drought of us that pitched the tent. Said
goodnight, splint of
river going broke. There is only so much
tending to do and
then what. Sleep won’t come. The parts
of me that are on
fire can’t put the parts of you that are on fire out.