They've been dreaming again.
Animals of the hunt
bled onto the dried-skin walls,
cold-breathed caves.

First impression, finger marks.
Liquification, ores becoming brittle.

Fixity for a moment in time,
an eon of small buffets, grit.

These fierce beasts charge their wool
spiking across scapes of overlap,

where the bogeyman waits
in the darkest part of dark.

In Altamira the Hall of Bulls
shivers on the peripheral

self-sealing circle of night—
hairy, goosebumped,

individual as a tattoo.


© 2005 by Christopher Barnes. All rights reserved.