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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wEMilP8Zns&ab_channel=ShawnJames-Topic

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He fantasizes

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About woodstoves

Bent from cheap tin, cut 

With scissors and pinned

By use of a hand-held pair

Of rusted, needle-nose pliers;

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He fantasizes

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About tallow candles, 

Drywall, naptha stoves,

About the blackened glass

Of kerosene lamps,

Of damp insulation,

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About the early morning lapping

Of a pre-dawn tide;

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He dreams 

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Of thin, glass windows

Propped open 

With cedar sticks,

Of incense - about seaweed and salt -

Of fishing line, collected hooks,

Colored bobbers,

Pale, green nets;

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He dreams after the crackling spin

Of cassette tapes, the spitting

Of a cured fir 

Woodfire, of split-rounds,

Stacked, an acoustic guitar,

Cable, a harmonica …

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Of yards, and cords and chords;

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He dreams of yellowed paper:

Enough titles, weathered spines,

Tattered covers - to last him 

Either 

The year, or the lifetime …

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Which ever 

Were to’ve dawned on him first.

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He deliberates

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After hermithood,

About quiet, and simplicity, 

About peace.

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Because, in his mind

And in a world like that -

One, with such ready accessibility -

Contentment, would not only come easy

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But would be borne, grown out

Before the wicker-whittled shadow,

Cast, by the bent statue of his presence, 

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Naturally,

Organically,

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From the sole, implanted placement of his feet.

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