Sasquatch, holy rover

Sasquatch, holy rover,
you are out there
in the far corner
of the forest, leaning
against a tree,
thinking of sitting,
thinking of running—you
are always on
the move, aren’t you, though?

The moon cuts like a hook
and you, Sasquatch,
lost in thought and spruce,
shrug and scratch and sigh and
step back again
to the markless roads
through the green-black night.

The squirrels, you’ll find at dawn,
and the grubs and
the birds, if you can—
you’ll eat them whole, their song
sung in your throat—
the water, you’ll drink
from the streams and the trees
flushed wet with rain.
When you stop, there’s pain.


MB 3/22/2021

Sasquatch, holy rover,
you are out there