Call me dazzled, dazzling, a hoof print in the dirt. Call me extinct or exacting or exactly what you needed. Call of nameless or whispered crimes. Call me on your way to Home Depot before or just after you've disposed of the body so I can tell you what an idiot you are. Call me honest to a fault or careless for believing that bad things only happen to other people's people. Call me a hazard, call to me haphazardly through the spider tunnel on the way to Panther Pond, drunkenly, a little in love maybe. Call me satisfied, content, but let's not pretend those are synonyms for joy. Call me incandescent as the light wanes a little later each day. Call me functional, a lantern, the collection of flashlights we keep under the bed. Call me appropriately named to be the head of some sort of cult that prays to otters instead of gods even though their hygiene habits are disgusting. When their fur is gleaming with ice flecks, you could call me anything: half-hearted, a hair-brained idea from the start, but I won't engage. Call me your shark on the line and I promise, I'll answer every time.
