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Description
its nothing this gnarling feel,
knotted up like oak
and so slim, sawed raw
and planed almost perfect
to a slim nothing. by chance
we chase down plats of plywood
over sphagnum mud, webbed roots
hands splayed out, screaming,
"you're it, you're it, you're..."
until boots slip and we fall.

this isn't muskeg tag,
not a simple childhood game:
when will i fall and will i rise?
here there are no old pine groves,
"safeties"; there's no hot lava
(wood chippings on grass)
either. my toes curl back
at imagined heat.

imagined, not like the empty
in my arms where you should nook,
become boughed up in me.
nothing splinters more than turning
over and over to see the forest
of us, clear cut, cold, and barren

only a folding of sheets, ruffled
pillowcases and the long white
expanse of nothing, reflecting
the sun's first light.

Description
its nothing this gnarling feel,
knotted up like oak
and so slim, sawed raw
and planed almost perfect
to a slim nothing. by chance
we chase down plats of plywood
over sphagnum mud, webbed roots
hands splayed out, screaming,
"you're it, you're it, you're..."
until boots slip and we fall.

this isn't muskeg tag,
not a simple childhood game:
when will i fall and will i rise?
here there are no old pine groves,
"safeties"; there's no hot lava
(wood chippings on grass)
either. my toes curl back
at imagined heat.

imagined, not like the empty
in my arms where you should nook,
become boughed up in me.
nothing splinters more than turning
over and over to see the forest
of us, clear cut, cold, and barren

only a folding of sheets, ruffled
pillowcases and the long white
expanse of nothing, reflecting
the sun's first light.