DRUNK LATE AT NIGHT IN A CABIN IN THE REDWOODS
The forest floor is thick with dirty needles.
I decide instead to take a walk up the hill
of the typewriter. When I come back in
I'm reminded I never had the heart
to carve the pumpkin. Its face is blank
as these six melatonin pills a friend
gave me to help me sleep out here
in the deep woods. I take three
in the hopes that I dream a poem,
a poem about a blind girl feeling,
then naming, the newborn foal, or one
about a deaf boy signing to the aurora,
a poem so absurdly poetic
the workshop would hate it.
The forest floor is thick with dirty needles.
I decide instead to take a walk up the hill
of the typewriter. When I come back in
I'm reminded I never had the heart
to carve the pumpkin. Its face is blank
as these six melatonin pills a friend
gave me to help me sleep out here
in the deep woods. I take three
in the hopes that I dream a poem,
a poem about a blind girl feeling,
then naming, the newborn foal, or one
about a deaf boy signing to the aurora,
a poem so absurdly poetic
the workshop would hate it.