The wood stove door is
and he will sit for hours
watching the saga unfold in
with occasional sapwood cherry bombs
(he tried the front row
to hear the story better
now he prefers a seat in the circle)
as the song begins to fade
he wraps the warmth in
a perfect ball
and hides amongst the sofa cushions
the true model of
A bit of fluff, really. I'm getting these out of a notebook I finished about four years ago, and it's interesting to see how much variation there is in the poems. I was working out a lot of things in my personal life at the time, and some of the stuff I wrote was so very bitter (and, frankly, pretty bad). Then you get things like this one, which is nothing more than sketching a moment. Then... well, there are some slightly more philosophical entries that I'm debating on whether to resurrect or not. Some of it's pretty weird.
Ah well. You'll know my decision on that by tomorrow, I expect.