Separate

I don’t usually assign much spiritual significance to death, but on the 8th of December, when two friends and I went to Potsdam to explore an abandoned cemetery, taking a picture felt wrong. In an effort to make something from the experience or somehow preserve it, I sat down and wrote this poem.

Cabin Fever

Cabin Fever Months snowed inA man rinsing and repeatingA sweet song played overTea heated on the stove forUnkempt hair and foggy glassesAnd bastard brain bashed inHe left home fast; saysHe never recoveredWhen looking at me through a cameraI was not so sureAbout my presenceAnd what I should be trying forIt comes back to me when