by Bruce McRae Ondrej Supitar What follows me has a number of eyes and a good many feet and fingers. Its mouth is filled with all those little black words. It’s traveling in circles, a void beckoning. What follows me is the wind aching in the branches. Like the moon on brass wheels or crusaders in search of their lost philosopher-king. Like a carpenter’s dusty-footed disciples. I can hear footsteps inside of other footsteps, beating a path under the bracken, tamping down a ro