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Robert S. King 



Along the old logging road

there are more fossils than trees:

petrified tire tracks, aluminum cans

full of rainwater, styrofoam

caskets the land never buried,

bones too broken to identify the species.


The wind stirs voices of ghosts

who can never leave this abandoned road,

this rough, long scar on the face of earth.

There is the faint odor

of diesel and sweat on sawdust.

The breeze going in circles here

is too weak to carry

the human scent away.

Turning the Page

While you nap, I sneak my scrapbook

into secret woods where only the trees look

over my shoulder at stories and pictures

I would never allow the light of legacy.


An elder oak has my back

as I lean back to read from the beginning

to near the end of my time.


Only the wind followed me here

to stir fallen leaves, turn pages

of blurred ink and faded photos,

a stream of haunts

who would remember me too well,

a choir of conscience

who would tell you too much.


Let it be me they tell so much.

Let whispers on breezes

tell me what may be written

on the last empty page

where my nervous pen hovers

before it goes down.

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