My spirit animal and I don't know the difference between a field of oats and
a field of woe.
Pine trees offer deals like Ikea dishes out yellow, make-believe homes
we all swarm to.
The forest isn’t just a place for me; neither is it a mere location for
the Moose—
We’re the same here, so look closely
at our velvet antlers waiting to be scraped,
last year’s shed no more than memories
wrapped in hunter blankets, thrown in pick-up trucks,
used for chandeliers.
We have new ones now, but we don’t tell anyone.
Marshes offer respite from the chit chatter, the stammering blasphemers and blaring television sets on every gas station pump.
Find us, there in the black water of a million dead things, there in the promise you once made to meet me anywhere I begged to be.
That’s here. It’s always been here, and I’m a fool for thinking I could pretend to be a stallion when every atom belonging to me as good belongs
to a moose.