Lying on the grass in the middle of broken glass,
motionless.
The hunter is there, into still air,
snaking
shyly, over and over behind me.
He tries to fool me during sleepless nights,
when my mind
is wandering out of sight,
in public parks.
Heaven and hell are no longer there,
this is the hunter’s night.
Can you hear “blessings, blessings”
manhattan?

Justine Duhayon