October rose a fine red dark, a spider-ripened midnight dark as porter, and we heard the beasties’ tappling, their pointed knuckles on the shout that blew across the fen: a ghost-thing of the murking East had slouched the marsh along of us its lips athirst for freshening, from cloud-soaked well in moonless lake to teeth into a last amen. I’m sound as robins, walking woods and shutting bones up tight. And I forget, and late at night see candle gore, see canines.