Waldens

So we fled the city like whooping cranes. With two pens, I built
cabins. Your laugh erected the foundations. A nearby trickle
of water sounded like money. We lived in lakes. We sunk wet,
muddy toes into the toothless dirt. The heavens closed
their eyes and would not open. White dwarfs, bulging, throats
whooping with laughter. I write outwards, in the muddy margins
of my life. The pines were our pillows; the rain a runny nose. You
wrinkled your face. I love you; I am a thickly-walled house. We swam
at night with our big muscles, pulling spoonfuls of oozing water, blue, abashed. The forest loves to be alone— it builds itself a cabin
of white space with wide margins. Here, you say, are my thoughts. They
drop like mussels from shells to silver spoons. We are out of the city. The city
of money, out of money, I am out alone in the white forest, abashed. I have nothing
but callouses, writing my life like Lincoln Logs lain atop another wooden
body. The fog thickens. Crickets. All things drowning, swimming in
debt. We are deep, deep in the lake.