Too much night in the Vienna woods, trunks crumble

into the faces of boars. Boy up

all night reading about crises,

his milk skin dated between the eyes,

the way scepticism twists skin.

I see you in buildings, I say.

I see you in red foxes that

scatter through jeweled woods outside

Chernobyl. In the light

jutted through clouds which don't rise

but curve round like (just say it) heaven.

The child twists her bedsheets.

Turn the night out, she commands.