on imagining the deer heads
bent over ferns
furled fiddles plucked leaving
the naked, stalked field
I grow myself
*
and someone snatched the pink lady’s slipper bloom
which took 14 years to fruit
which makes me not myself
*
or the car too hot under the July sun
almost a steam over
my skin
difficult to be
*
although pretending the world loves me
and talking behind so-and-so’s back yesterday
I am full of myself
*
at the fllllttt of rain
the plans for an outing
fail
but who could be blamed
Douglas Korb is the author of a chapbook, The Cut Worm, and his poems and reviews have appeared in magazines such as Hobart, Versal, Barrelhouse, Spork, RHINO, Talisman, Poet Lore, and elsewhere. His erasure art can be found online at www.brokarthere.wordpress.com. He lives in Marlboro, VT.