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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