a home for poems
a word temple
though crooked
never built quite right
not a reflection of the poems
written within


when the wind’s just right
old marine fuel
gasoline and two cycle oil
rises out of the floor
ghosts of this shack’s
former life


someday i will be crooked
able to stand upright
in this doorway
i once had to duck through
door frame
an awkward parallelogram
sloppy cuts with
dull saw

when it’s raining
the door won’t close
hemlock planks swollen and stubborn

when it’s cold and dry
the door swings open
spirits of yabyum
go wandering

Reach out and touch someone....

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