Wild Disregard by Karen Little

Clouds lower and prove the curve of sky circling
in broad strokes. Sea should soothe, it’s inevitable
power override the black dog pounding towards me.
Head-blows won’t cause permanent damage, though
double-vision is inconvenient. I watch sprite shadows
scampering along sea walls, see him hook
twin trout who wriggle on the end of taut lines, reeling
them in, hugging their slippery bodies with four arms.
I no longer lust for him, not even as an idea. My addiction
to unreality, found at the bottom of wine bottles, gives
extra layers of skin even as he flays them; we’re angry
as gulls squabbling over sea-food half-baked in sun.

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