so I got all the notes and brochures and made my way
to a cinderblock cabin in the woods.
I dabbed the low ceiling with grease from my thumb.
I listened for footsteps in the woods.
There was also a light induced trance
from the flicker of light cast through the trees,
but it all was peculiar and wonderful, like
your cherry belly. In the woods I remembered
adults who were particular and elegant,
if not a little stiff and calculated. Did I ever smell smoke?
Was there a reason to panic? I preferred to use
distance to ward off everything that confused me,
for both the road and traveler are fucked. I had a problem
with the world, but not the details. I loved
breaking pieces off the cabin and putting them end to end
like a series of chalky, concrete dominoes. I dabbed each piece
in fat to hold them upright. I feared the brightness
of the winter days the way anyone would.