Writing

A Poem, I Guess

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I wish I was a black wolf that could turn into mist.

I wish I was running through the woods and into the lake.

I wish I was diving, blue back to blue.

And everyone would poke their heads out and say comeback!

And everyone would be so mad.

And I would run and I would run and I would not understand them anyway.

I would just be a wolf in the woods.

Gone to mist.

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Royal Fowl

The golden eagle swoops down and grabs me by its talons and I am the eagle and I am taking a nose dive but I bounce up, right before impact, I bounce up and I soar higher than I’ve ever gone. And this continues—with so much strength the air is sliced open by my beak—diving/bouncing to infinity, like a heart going into frenzy, forever.

 

June 15, 2017

Today is quiet and I feel other lives touching mine—and they are mine, except I can’t reach [the past] them. Books will steal your brain and leave a kaleidoscope in its place. I am restless and angry with myself. I am going to carry binoculars around so I can see what those trees are doing so far out in the lake—looks like it’s going to rain again. [A rabbit! Behind the fence.] We’ll meet on my neighbour’s roof.

—phone notes, June