He doesn’t know his belt’s gone out of style,
or that he needs a license,
that hunting has a season now.
He is still in the endless forests of his past,
the pine-rich darkness, the crush of snowdrops at his feet.
Does he feel eyes on him
as he searches the same ground each night,
his quarry always ahead?
Could he not know?
His dogs have sensed it,
Major and Minor, who follow him anyway,
hoping he will touch their heads
if he ever lowers his bright arms.
Cassiopeia sits in her chair
wondering where the train is going
wondering where as blackness slips by
left and right she left her bag
Sitting upright in the stiff-backed chair
Get comfortable the conductor said
when she got on the night is long