Four Poems

Badger

There are still places in the world to hide,
retreats from raw exposure to the sun
and wind excoriating anyone
who leaves a last resort to step outside.
How could we meet the new imperative
to lay our holds and habits bare, to live
in some communal isolation,
alone yet tracked to each location?

We hail from scattered lights of hamlets where
perfluoropropionic acid flows
through mountain streams and lingers in our clothes
while sulfates blur a ridge through the evening air.
Those lights – emphatic pinprick points – disperse
as years go by and neighbours’ words grow terse,
a bark repeated with soft insistence,
...