The dogs coming after are many and dark, the scent foreign, the problem of hunger. The woman half illuminated, suggestion of trees. It is the deer they want, white fragment of bone, piece of an eye that is watching. But he is only a figure crossing her body, snow she has curled into shape, her beloved, because it is winter, because there are things she can't use.
From How the Brain Grew Back Its Own History by Liz Beasley. Copyright © 2008 by Liz Beasley. Published by Bright Hill Press. Used by permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.