Camp Stories

Wood splinters buried

in the soles

of soft feet

like old fencing nails

now earthed inches deep

preserved from pre-war construction.

The empty mill-lot barn

brittle as its worried tale

told like telephone static 

in the warm night fog,

the haunts regale.

Leave a Comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s