The Bedside Book of Cryptids
I was
rehearsing what I would say.
I had lined up some cocktail
toothpicks.
It was
one of those days that makes us
believe in Bigfoot,
the sky more shadow
than a maker of shadows.
We all
need a little downtime.
To be that which we’ve marked
our trails by.
To speak like a Viking.
To smolder.
Most
smoke and all spoken word
is imaginary, anyhow.
All but
a few scraps of Viking bone
are likewise, imagined.
The more
I invented what to say,
the darker the sky grew.
The fewer my options.
The
landscape and my desk and the best loved
stories of lovers everywhere
were laid out before me.
The sharpened sticks love smuggles
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