Yeti, You Made Like Byron
You came at me like a yeti. Yes, I was sasquatch hunting,
but this was not the matter. What hunter of Bigfoot ever finds Bigfoot?
They only find nests of twenty foot trees and piles of bones and skins.
You found me, eyeing me in the stand where I hid in leaves like Eve,
peering out at the wilderness through my binoculars. You were there,
lurking but unreal in the forest where the rain never stops.
I didn’t believe you were real, but you were real. Really there.
There always, leaving footprints in the mud of that forest.
I saw your tracks first. Some of them rhymed.
Yetis don’t write poetry, do they? Do they?
This is why I never heard you coming. You made like Byron, you animal.