People’s voices are wooden here. I can hold them in my hands. Freshly cut timber voices. Moist wood I crawl inside and float down river on. Tree trunks I crawl up and hide in. Tree voices that tell me, “Come out of your cage and talk to us,” and call the dam, “the waterfall,” and Target store, “Tar-je” to make it sound more exotic.
Somebody put a headdress made of bark on a Smoky the Bear, Fire Danger sign.
The spirits are hungry and the grumbling of their bellies comes from the ground beside my bed. I go to the kitchen at night and gather apples, oranges, jugs of milk, bacon, sausages, bottles of wine, and loaves of bread to put under my bedside table for the spirits to feast upon. I also give them books of poems and pens and paper.