The state of Maine appears in a lot of my writing, and serves as the setting of this poem. I wrote this one live on a drowsy Reddit public access broadcast.
In the Forests 'round Camden we call 'em Woodsharks
Child at the start, entropy
being trite again. Our clothes
would skin us if it were otherwise.
So drum up these kids in the woods,
trees old enough to eat dogs,
or stuff their face with needles.
Treehouse liaisons,
a berry bearing bear:
I learnt bricks of my trade
there in Lighthouse glade
beneath the polar bear's
arctic glare.
Enough of rhyme,
mal-metered adolescence
familiar bric-a-brac
of sexual exchanges.
No sexual fetish
rhymes with god.
The leaves mute the
sun more steadfastly now,
the polarity bear one paw raised -
frigid snowlight kitsch
illuminates the grove
below the treehouse.
I see my graduation,
backward gyre into anniversaries
& federal coupon parades.
one paw lowered god absolves us
tugging on ourselves
before stepping out the woods.
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