I thought of not writing
But then thought why not
I. Hate to disappoint. It
Makes me feel at odds
With what I thought. And
What I thought as misread
A deer, a camp, a man that
Does exist and has felt the
Ebbing of life as the woods
Became darker and the hand
Held grew distant. An odd
End to life. Dreamt as we
Walked. I often wonder what
Besides fossils can be read in
Stone, stones shaven in half
To decorate suburbia where
Our greatest masters try and fail
I am glad I wrote, I am glad to have read,
I am glad
We exist only a few continents apart
