Near the Hollow of Laughing Hounds
Near the hollow of laughing hounds.
Like a patch of blonde hair in the wind,
The gold grain sways.
On the fourth day we moved the stone back,
Knowing nothing.
Surrounded by the hyenas of rot and dogs of putrefaction.
Who paint affliction in all corners,
The soil is silent even as we step forward.
Black earth.
Mulch.
A lone soldier in the springtime.
Near the hollow of laughing hounds.
Drops his head down and breathes,
Gentle as the waves.
Windrazors flay him into tatters,
While the gold grain sways.
I Saw Foxes
shulamite,
i saw foxes,
spread like red paint on the side of the road,
in traps gnawing at edges,
nipping at their own ankles,
what's more stressful?
the tail curls into the road,
a tuft of white and red among the thorns,
i can only guess at their strength.
once there were ravens,
becoming millions,
like the stars at night.
shulamite,
i saw foxes,
still living.
— Adrian Frey is a 23 year old poet from Upstate New York. Their work has appeared previously in APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL. Their Instagram is @aj_frey and their Twitter is @slowcorecowboy.