You sense a presence in this place.
I feel a chill, dead, mass of air.
You think it’s a ghost, one of your race
still uneasy in its rest.
Your talk prickles my neckline hair.
Moonset is orange in the west;
some angry cloud has tinted the white.
My unease grows as you draw close.
I put my fingers on your wrist
and wish the day would rush the night.
I measure the stutter of your pulse.
You take my hand and say, “Let’s run!
I do not like whatever it is.”
We run and hills swallow the moon.
Vessel -- Lucy Campbell