Walden

It’s so easy to forsake the

world, he says.

If only

we all just left

society alone

and built cabins

with our hands

out of driftwood and

pitch from the old old

pines that fell

into the pond. Just

borrow an axe

and imagine a house

and build a shack

with dead dead wood

in land you never bought

with materials you never

owned.

It’s so easy to find

what they forgot and

make it your own, to build

that shack,

that lean-to,

that wigwam of hopes

for an emptier,

lonelier

world. Just leave it all behind

because he told you it’s easy.

He told you

you could.

But I’ve got people in that

village, and I can’t live

on corn meal

in winter. Yeah, I want

to read

in my private little

cell of stolen wood—

but sometimes the bricks

aren’t just lying on the ground

waiting for me

to pick them up.

Sometimes

I have to fire the clay

myself.

The Mount