I’m absolutely convinced, and have been since I first saw them six or seven years ago, that there’s a poem in the stacked logs in our greenhouse/shed. The woodpile has obviously changed over the years, and there must be notes in half a dozen different places now, but the poem simply won’t come together.
I found these lines in some papers when I was sorting out the other day, and by posting them here I should at least ensure this fragment isn’t lost, though there’s no guarantee that the whole piece will ever be completed:
In the space where the logs abut the wall,
dimmed by years of rain and dirt
glass filters sunlight to pale green.
I glimpse the spreadeagle silhouette
of a lizard tangled in spider’s silk
and reach to set it free. Shadow-thin
it crumbles to a memory.