I don't have a strip of metal with my name on the one side
They refer to me by my green eyes
In the room with the ceiling gone you can see the rafters
Holding up the filament bulbs
Antiquated
Tungsten glow
In the winter with the trees bare I can navigate
Through the woods on the edges of the fields
Wooden limbs of crowns
Reaching for each other
To make the Sign of Peace on a Sunday
The offer stops short
Whether shyness or respect
Sky becomes a river through the canopy
I don't really look amazed
That's because this face is not the best means
To determine my reaction
Just another curse of immortality
From down here the cornstalks look like the undead
Raised from the grave and assembled in rows
Passage through these sentries up the hill and to the old house
Habitats of ticks for defenses
Empty haven
Nightlong stretch
There's a tunnel underneath the front porch to the basement
I can take the stairs into the den
A fortress decomposed
Into gentle ruin
All except a chair immune to atrophy
A creaking upstairs
Tiptoes from the bedroom
Yells for me to get down off the cushioned seat
Skitter out into the air
Careful not to find a hunter's crosshair
Soon these shadows will engulf this county
But my vision's not a choke for me
Upon return I see the silver station wagon
And a light up on the second floor
I see she's prepared a bed for me
Folded flannel in her wooden dresser drawer
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