The Shack Above the White Pines

Summer, 2019 / No. 43

A wisp twisted out the rickety chimney. An old can stood on the gravel and my six-shooters slogged chunks of lead right into it. Every time they spat the old can jumped. The can was Parker brand, I remember the blue paper label was half worn away. On the gate, a blackbird stretched its wings feather by feather. My brother sat cross-legged. He looked down at his hands and said, “There’s a can over yonder.”

Michael e. Casteels wrestles with robots in existential-crisis, dinosaurs that refuse extinction, alphabets in various stages of explosion/implosion, and many other serious topics, like century-long bus rides, and the way the clouds look right now. His first collection of poetry is The Last White House at the End of the Row of White Houses. He runs Puddles of Sky Press. Last updated summer, 2019.