Yeti

Until him there was nothing dark enough
To bend and twist with the thick of the woods
He casts raw shadows against peeling bark
Like an old prison veteran, he’s afraid of the outside
He’d whisper that to someone, across wires
Between tin cans if he could

The soil he calls home is sand between his toes
His home is a blinking red dot that fades without a bulb
He’s an homage to a different time
The convergence of science and a heavy-handed cloud
He’s a story being told to scare children around campfires
To satisfy the sense of mystery we use to survive each day
When a hatchet and a knife just won’t do

Some days people come for him
Leave him messages scratched in dirt
They look for a sign of him with fingers pressed against their lips
But every time he makes himself known
He sees his reflection through their glassy stares

There is a scientist in a dark room
He lives next door to you
He knows the passwords that haven’t been set yet
He understands the textures and membrane
that encase feelings and thoughts
He says things like
I won’t believe it until I see it
But he doesn’t mean it

When he peers through the heaving trees
Between the fury of windshield wipers
He sees a world he can’t hold in his hands
Or study through a microscope
He sighs —
I cannot discover what does not want to be seen.

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