Krakauer

Krakauer
used to argue
with me
in the music
of the
Long Wait.

The sound of deer ticks
climbing sawgrass.

I swear
and swear to God
I tried to lose
that book.

I crossed
rivers
but could not
empty it from me,

Could not bury it
in the ash
or the stack of twilights
of all that I'd made scant.

It was always finding
its way to the
top of
those thin
nights,

A residual haunting.

He had me talking to myself
in the silence

or the sway

or the great timeless sea of crickets.

"I'm careful,"

I'd say.

"Yes.
But lost.
And too eager to be lost to your care."