find some unclaimed brush deep in blue ridge
to grow leathery and lonesome in.
my staff is whatever tree’s fallen arm i find that day,
my lantern: a locket, and the flame your tiny portrait.
i’ll fashion a bed of apple cores and rotten leaves,
let my beard grow until it can serve as a wooly blanket.
in the mornings i’ll take tea with god
and whoever her lover is,
and we won’t talk.
my afternoons will be dedicated to stillness
what a therapy, or for poetry and its lovemaking.
upstream will be for drinking and fishing,
downstream for laundry and pissing and that other
hushhush thing all those with bowels
must sometimes do (die).
and in the rough nighttime i will join
the coyote chorus, singing:
it seems to me you lived your life
like a candle in the wind!
“maybe i’ll become a hermit,” appears in issue 7.2 of Underground Art & Literary Journal.