"some rounds fall clean down split in two,
some tough and thready, knotty,
full of grass and galleries..." – Snyder, from "Gnarly"










Reading through some such magazine
just last night,
ballgame in the background,
could hear hard rain out there just beyond the sliding glass door–
screen to the real thing,
a back bay, half-wild,
boats barely moving so tied down,
reading about how to make a shelter
out in the wild,
slip that saw edge into two good handles,
wrap it up to tighten at top
then start that limb slow, slow, easy.
Could smell the pine needles below my feet,
looking up
the elbow in the birch is what I'd use
for my beam,
then assign myself some tasks
for limbs,
weave them in and out, breath in the smoke
swirling around catching in wind,
lucky for my fire, by hatchet (?)
one can only hope,
then leaves over my new house,
waiting
for the eyes of the woods place themselves
at the edge
of my little existence,
me keeping the certain coming rain out.