Anachrome brought me here:
Leveled the forest floor
And dug the deep holes
That left me homeless.
I wrestled with fate.
I angled my history towards
Chemical baths and
Burning blow torches.
Then I left in distance.
With mud huts and ivory
And skinny dipping clear-cuts.
Like a woodpecker on a telephone pole.
There was no death.
No marked spot for execution,
Hanging noose or bullet hole.
Anachrome lived in smoke.