Not to mention Seer,
twitching at death-reflections,
short fur tight over pyramid skulls.
Radar ears stretch to sails, to nets; snatch
what could be death-sounds. Death-scents
are scooped by berry noses and filed
in a growing conspiracy flickbook.
The thousand fanged chasers, eyes facing forward,
all of them, the colours that leap
at us, they are formed
from our vapour trails. They are grass cuttings
scooped into shape by our hind legs;
shadows, the ones we tried
to gnaw off.
Move on: They smell us. They see
the star that bobs behind each of us,
and they smile; even now
they pad closer.