There is a poison splitting the air between us
and scraps of bark sticking to our limbs,
to us sticky people.
We are tearing at the air around us --
trying to pierce the fabric of a lakeside world.

As we swipe we close our eyes
and the only solid things to tear are each other.
We want to beat off the bark
and to slice air into the poison,
but our nails are big and clumsy --
we miss and scratch our faces.

So we rip and dig out chunks
hating those that gave us sharp, sharp claws.

We tear to bide time
till the wind assumes our job
and rips herself apart by our bedsides
for the pine trees and goslings
and want of new aether.

We share an anguish and a fear.
We share a volcano under pressure.
We share that awful, ripping explosion,
and the wind-born landscapes
left in its wake.