Under a casket in the spare room I find
a book I’d forgotten buying, a book titled
Art And Fear.

I think being under a casket
for a few years
has made it a better book
than if it hadn’t been there.
It smells like it soaked up
a little something under there
which I think makes it
far more credible.

This is the part where you ask
about the casket.

This is the part where you ask
why I moved the casket.

This is the part
where you can hear an owl
in the distance and cannot tell
if it’s in the poem, the yard,
or the next room,
the part where you stay awake
long after you should be asleep.