The day after the election, he carved a mask.
The day after that, he carved another.
It had never been more than a hobby; a craft passed down to him by his grandfather, who carved and painted all
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to jump through our chaste window,
carry us over the midnight snow
under a far moon?
Dare we—at this stage in the old game—dare
to feel the galloping charge
of hot breath, rough hair?
Outside our window the dreamwolf passes,
hungry, unconcerned with us.