OCCUPANTThe sad mailbox of my extreme youth, what did it ever deliver? The only...
A CRITICPick up your socks. Clean the house once in a while. Go to the dentist. ...
HISTORIANPiles and piles of books, boxes of documents, photographs, bones, shreds of clothes...
YOU WHO KNOWI was just enough bigger that I could wrestle you into the clean straw of the mow...
GRIFFY LAKEI spread my smooth water like a lap and caught the trees' faces where they fell...
Dear Eric,
East across low muddy fields and behind the screening trees you
can see smoke from my chimney. The same thick creek that floods
your lawn makes a turn by my porch.
Someone full of knowledge built this house. Walls join like
bone to gristle, the foundation is a syllogism of stone.
It is private. No lane leads here from the road. Twisted
woods keep out visitors on foot. There are no doors and the
windows will not yield to any bashing I can muster.
I have lived here who knows how long, ever since I met the
one who said "Come with me; I will show you something secret
and perfect . . ."
Old Neighbor