Unpublished Work

(Because I like it that way.)

 

One Week Late

This is what planted the yellow wood
which bore the trees
which bore the son.
(Oh yes, we all grow round,
and sleep forever,
and split ourselves in halves.)

This is the pulse of the earth,
I thought to myself,
curled up,
when you thought I was sleeping.
This is the blood of the river,
the eye of the tree,
and it is no force but an accident.

Paddock Farm

He’s skulking in among the trees,
with giant net, resting,
over the shoulder
hunting butterflies
and teenagers.

 

In my secret nerdy dreams...

I somehow manage to get published "for real" in an anthology, start getting to call myself a "real writer," and become best friends ("really") with Billy Collins. We run off into the sunset singing happy camp songs and drinking Kool Aid and... well, you get the idea.