Fear of technology is a gawping dear stopping cars on the road,
Clop hopping past the treeline, venturing toward the wolf’s incisor.
Its hooves sink in the snow like sharp enamel in the throat.

It’s not productive to collect snowflakes in your thoughts
And burrow out a place for your inexplicable self to hide.
The boatman of death will look askance at your need to explain.

Autumn arrives with cupped hands bearing roasted apples.
Its fingers quiver like the steaming ribcage of a newborn lamb—
Surviving— the feeling you get when you cannot sit a moment more.