On a Trail in Peoria

Like most my poems, I never know if the ending is right. I'd love to hear feedback

If barefoot, I’d feel trail’s sand-dust palpitations
in sync with a Boa’s tail finding mice. Boa constricts
22/20 vision underneath forest’s shadow-cast branches.

Snakes are reasons I don’t trust trails,
nor where they lead. For all I know, trails snake to end
at the means of Evil Dead cabin,
or hell,
or 8 foot cubicle prison.

See-
trails thrive on moon’s vitamin D light
and soon enough, dirt breathes on my feet.
Dirt has hands shaped like twigs, and it’s twigs
that rape the first victim in campy horror movies.
So, I follow poison oak
and four-leaved clovers - gaining fortune from map-patched skin.
Bees share honey with me, while I fight bear claws.
The deer leap over frogs, and Cardinals fly to Springfield,
but leave Mosquitos to drink wine from my wrist.

I’d camp inside gopher holes,
if dusk doesn’t lead me to car.

Morning light would soak tree-branch leaves
and shrivel trails to grandpa’s skin. I’d walk
on comatose stones- just waking up without a coffee cup.