The screen door slams me out into the see-your-breath morning, and I leap off the steps.
I run the teeth through a spruce. It spits wood in my face that bounces off the goggles.
The teeth come red through the top of my shoe, and red flies out into the wood chips and needles.
I hold out my palm, where four birds aren’t.
Thank you, Oliver! If you’ve got a bio and/or links to your work, please send them to us via Dennis by clicking here.
