Inside the forest there is a bear mauling a camper slowly,
almost unnaturally, almost poetically,
so that the downward sweep of each claw can be considered,
then each claw licked clean, and deep inside
the bear somewhere

is another camper, this time warmly lit by campfire,
calmly narrating the aforementioned assault—
“the floating hair”, he says, “the doll-like flaccidity of the camper”,
he says, but without irony as if simply giving

instructions on, say, making a sandwich or as if reading poetry—
and inside that camper is a bear sitting beside
another campfire, being introspective,

playing classical
guitar.

Zachary Schomburg has recent poems in Ducky, Good Foot, Mid-American Review, and Forklift Ohio. He co-edits Octopus and has one wife and two cats.