Sagging walls built who knows by whom or when

squat in icy creek, centipede birchwood

zoetrope beyond highway trash collage

on the cusp of glacial restoration.

Sagging walls, built who knows by whom or when.
   Road a curtained whizzing, around just-deep-

   enough-you-could-get-lost guerrilla 

   campsite in centerless clearing, morning

   tipped more than one obtrusive deer or bear,

   snuffling, against our tent. So deftly 

   did we shy headlong into placebic 

   muffle and darkness of our sleeping bags

   we couldn’t, until they were gone, be sure 

   whether or not they’d gone, or what they were.