Here is a child wanting a pool back
wanting all the poetry books at once She is
She is not fever-rich
She juts out into the world so her hand
any may safely explode
as a nature
She can’t buy all the poetry books
She has a different kind of money
She is a strider Admire her
So she goes with all the trees All hold their arms
high open to the freezing cold matters
in the thing called a woods
She but no longer a girl
She walks between them All the insane openness
of the arms A cold bitter
A martini of cold
With an olive of colder
It is a madness of the trees
God, the earth is a mattress
and nothing more
As I am a baited bear
no longer being baited,
none of the moral aphorisms
apply to me.
I will not extrapolate from my days
to your days,
which may be harder
I seek berries.
I eat deer.
What do you do?
If I punch myself in the arm
with something that looks like self-satisfaction,
kindly note it is a paw.
I feel very fortunate to have retired from the fangs of dogs.
It is a good thing live here in a quiet forest.
I’d hate to find myself accidentally in your city
and have a mauled human
under my body
and then when the police arrived in fury and guns
have absolutely no way to explain myself
to your human satisfaction.
You will have to just shoot me.
Truth, it’s probably better than being captured
by someone like you.