What Else is There to do but Dig? by Enny Oar

the moss is cool against my fingers
my back damp
the sky has lost its blue

at my feet, the remnants of decades
rusted cans, a rotten shoe
i make a bed of copper leaves
and let the trees
wash my hair with their dew

an unseen squirrel chitters
on a far away branch
but i don’t want to
leave too soon

i feel nothing much better
than to lay here in silence
amidst the forest and the

About the Author

Enny Oar is a part time laundress and full time canoe. He can be seen in your minds eye if you squint
really hard while thinking about the void and date squares. He has worn jeans several times.

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