the barbed wire sprayed in rust
burns tawny sharp against your bones,
skin slick and fever colored with blood.
"you can't run through cyclone webs
without a spider slipping through"

i always warn you
when you lose your way.
the wolf may still be close behind
but your calves are cinnamon spun
in ancient ore, and he's catching up
with style now, minute flares of comfortable
risks.
you ravel deeper the quicker you bound,
while i wind my way in marathon loops,
slow-evade,
through metal advances that show their wear.

the faster you move the less you learn.

i warned you, herd, but you
shy away in nomadic bursts
while the wolf and his ticks
grow hungry and bold.