Now, when I am shackled in my mother’s home
in the middle of the woods, with nothing to do
but write & fuck & consume, especially the day
after Thanksgiving, when not frigid enough to stay
inside forever but it is frigid, I want to roam
what seems the unattainable world, missing
the skyscrapers I hate & the open seasons over
Pittsburgh & the rows of rowdy bars I get wild in.
I want to drive my Ford Fiesta up the hill in shadow
& never come back down, accelerate to a hundred
& become the blur of pines, windows
down, forest mornings so thick with unease
I want to be shackled by trees & serve
the unattainable world the oxygen it lacks.
(originally published in Erothanatos, Spring 2020)