A day off the map
no lighthouse hikes
no ferry tickets in my pocket
just the cabin walls
the pines breathing slow outside

I roll up green quiet
let the smoke curl through
the screen door cracks
the air tastes like lakewater
and cedar

a chapter or two, maybe more
the book heavy in my lap
but light enough to drift away from
when Ethel Cain's voice
slips into my ears clean and close
like she's laying right beside me

no rush, no reason
the world can go on spinning its errands
while I stay here
in bed,
half ****** half reading,
all the way alive
in the hush of Tobermory