In deep fall, logic sleeps standing
and we find barracuda in the lake.
No sweat. The wind buffets,
the boat shimmies, worrying the water.
Dreams in lazy circles
lap pebbles to sand, relentless.
I watch from the tallest tree.

We are not here to shirk judgment.
We come to choose a door,
the one with tiger, the one
without a prayer, and choose again.
The faint of heart die regular,
drowned in caution’s shallow water,
while mad poets rig out second lives.

That we nibble at want and need,
strip for the hun beyond the pines—
this is part of admission.
Let chill air in and drink till numb,
lest morning serve same cold breakfast:
a home with a great stone wall
and nightmare from living too long.