yellow knife, carried from africa in the pocket of a ditch-digging
peace corps writer;
a gabon viper once clung
to the netting of his tent
while he lay sleepless below.
we all need shelter and books.
all these years later
i keep the knife close.
and carve initials
on the rails of the old bridge
not because i think it's mine,
but because i know it is not.