-
Issue 62
-
Editor's Note
-
POETRY
-
FICTION
-
ESSAY
Issue > Poetry
The Log-Book
Climbing the swayback hill
by Bird Cemetery Road,
my feet sink into mud,
the small bones—roots.
I'm turning into a bush
of burrs that want me
to carry their seeds.
Picking the little porcupines off
I stump into a log—
it splinters into pages—
detailed with worms.
Abandoning that log-book,
I stagger up
toward a tree
with a blue hole: blue center.
I want to forget those worms.
The tree, firmly rooted,
arches beyond the ledge
overlooking the patchwork comforter
of fields. Approaching
the windswept tree,
my shadow flings
itself over—flies a little
and returns.