Seven Down

Beneath the serrated
angry bushes I prayed
to become adept enough
to place my foot out.

I realize.

If I spend my time
and refuse frugality
I feel as though I’ll have missed
the special way you make me feel.

The pails can remain empty,
for I am spurred on by the
need to feel something more
than solidarity in my chest.

If I wax or wane please
keep your eyes out.
I am strong, but hollow.
Fill me.

Like the flowers retreat
before the breast of Winter
so too does my heart bury itself
when I feel that familiar look.


It wasn’t the sport.
It wasn’t the forest.
It wasn’t the sun.
It wasn’t the fox.
It wasn’t the divine.
It wasn’t the hunter.
It wasn’t the smiling youth.

I know who he’s not,
and that has comforted me
as much as it has burned.
That’s seven down.