A forest without light. Broken air tears apart broken branches.
          By morning, everyone rises. A few run between
cypresses. A young boy crawls a serpentine-thread
          vine, hangs upside down, squawking.
The rain has washed our malice. Specks of light circle us. Forgive us.
          “How was this valley formed?” “By time and time and time.”
We don’t have time to watch water travel the length
          of a swollen arm, dissolving slate, sand, eyes, teeth, filigree
like when you ran from these woods, screaming to be heard.

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Liam Hysjulien lives in Knoxville, TN. His work has appeared in the New Republic, the American Reader, Mayday Magazine, and elsewhere. You can follow him here.