Once

Once, I found myself lost in a wood—

not an allegorical wood, but real

forest, oak and loblolly pine,

probably owned by a lumber company

biding its time. I wandered down the paths

worn by whitetails. The sun fell behind

a stand of poplars. I had no bars, and soon,

no battery. The ardent peepers sang

all night; the moon and I hummed along.

It was rather nice to be alone, and so

I did not rush or panic. I licked the dew

from magnolia leaves. I ate seven toadstools

the color of napalm, and did not die. My hair

grew long as Spanish moss, and I brushed it smooth

with a comb of bones. Why cry out, or try

to find a way to leave, when everything

I needed was there? No one missed me, or sent

a search party. Perhaps I was not lost

curling intimately through my jaw,

enfeathering the bird bones of my ear!

A red fox made off with my tibia,

but I did not begrudge it. He was a fox.

I like to tell this story on summer nights,

when owls cruise above on soundless wings.

Remember, every word of this is true.