and then that summer I found the remnants
of the tree house, decaying in the upper
branches of the tree in the farthest corner

of the pasture, and I played quiet violent
games there, far away from humanity,
out with the rest of the cattle, searching

for something real in the feel of the wood steps
nailed deep through the bark of the tree
into the ringed years existing long

before I arrived on this open land
of 22 acres, so far from the city-home
that birthed me, and often I would climb

those steps to the nothing that once was something,
imagining that just this once the timbers
would un-rot, and I would find myself
basking in the secret solitude of the fortress

out of time