I’ve never been much of a salesman.
Though I skid on the dark turns, I don’t crash.
Woods surround the field where the men were gathered.
There’s a dead maple stripped of bark.
First termites, then woodpeckers come.
I was left behind by the glacier.
A boulder in the field too big to move.
The stream runs in thick blue ballpoint.
A hunter told us the raccoon was full of ink.
Bees collect ink from the clover and make weird honey.
My hand is shaped like a map of Michigan.
My mind is in Detroit.
We’re building trees again.
