Caleb Beissert



Loose-leaf in the Great Smokies

Lost,
we are laughing on forest roads,
because every little town looks the same.
Early November with all the Christmas lights up,
the whole of main street electric wonderland,
dogs barking and clawing at living room windows.

We drank our tea on a hill
near Oconaluftee,
where the people make houses
for the little people—
even a miniature church,
eerily silent.

A cat follows us around,
white fur, and a scar over its eye.
We end up at the meathouse puzzling,
and the chickens huddle together for warmth.
Icicles are glass
needles clinging to the eaves.





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