Hunting Lodge

Where do you raise a poem?
Etch it on the surface of a pond?
Hang it in the air above a burning building?
Braid it into a web spanning freeway and radio tower?

A poem is a hunting lodge and a circus tent,
a night trauma and a nucheal ligament,
allowing the mind to race clear headed and upright

through a forest fire in a deep ravine
while the heat sears your memories
and anneals your losses
like wax on old bourbon bottles.

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