Empty swings hover above the ground
when it’s dark out and there’s no one
in the neighborhood. People just outside
rip parking tickets off their cars
and drive home from the bars.
“Just stay between the lines” is all
they tell themselves.
We see things so much clearer
from the roof and so we clamber up
a ladder picked out perfect from a rack
down in the basement. Looking up,
I could see all the things I was supposed to
nothing was missing, and people were pissing
way off within the wilderness.
The trees get hungry at night and prey
on the light that seeps out of our windows
from so far away. There is blood dried
on the ax I pulled out of the bark.
Something must have been wounded
out there in the dark. Though thinking back
on it now, with its deep roots beneath.
The blade may have been there much longer
than I could imagine.
Teleporting Typewriter 