Sasquatch at the End of the World

Bigfoot Loses Heart

When berries were scarce
I ate the chipmunk who 
ate the berries. 

When my fur made fingers of ice down my back,
I told myself stories of what it must be 
to wake inside the sun. 

When rain would not stop
I waded into the river. I sat on a boulder and spat 
where the current parted around me. 

All was as I wished it to be.  
The notes I scrawled in the mud each sunset
were happy notes. Day this. Day that. 

But now I do not know where I have put those fingers. 
Now I’ve lost the hole inside the hole.

A Meditation

The snow makes some things clear: the deer
has been up before me, as has the fox

            is what I spoke into my phone’s voice-to-text.

No Mike I’m waiting for your call: the beer
has an offer for me, as has the fuck

            is what it heard.  

I wanted to consider how snow compresses time
by showing tracks, one moment layered over the next,

            to visit the waste of each footfall I had stacked 

invisible along a circled path these twenty years—
but I was made instead to wonder 

            where Mike had gone, why he didn’t 

call, what the beer was truly offering, 
and what, the fuck.

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