Justin Runge

The elm, bone run
over wind's teeth.

With the chimney,
clipped classified,
a section of sky
scissored away.

Loss is wintering.

A truck can't grin,
stare as a smoker
in the parking lot
does at departure.

The skull hangs
from the gables
as a subterfuge
to keep rodents
out of the attic,
to redirect gnaw.

A saw is teethed
into what a child
sees as the ocean.