The first people through here
built fires to keep them back.
They spent whole days gathering wood
and kindling so that their flames would
burn all night.
They listened to “the not us”
moving back and forth in the trees,
and they praised their dry-wood fires
for another night of huddled safety
from black, bristling hair and dirty, reaching claws.
“The not us” gnashed their teeth in the darkness
and stripped bark from the twisted limbs
of birch trees,
but they never broke the glowing ring,
or let themselves
be seen in the heat of the camp.
Now, the humming of filaments
and the drowsy, blue hue
of your last bondage website
speak to them across dark and wooded miles,
waking them,
drawing them to crawl from the caves
and craggy overhangs
that hide them from the daylight.
They come on all fours when
the bush is dense,
on two legs when there are open fields and paved roads,
until they can reach out to touch your door,
or squint through your window to
watch you in the dull, flickering glow.