Phil Wood




Family Man

Hullabaloo unframes this night,
the hide and seek of vixen and dog fox:
the bark of both, a crack through slate.

The miner’s hut is curtain free, open
to whim. A bottle grins its emptiness;
the vagrant curls into childhood.

His ghosts are busy carving letters
into floorboards. Do you love us? they ask.
He plays a game of peek-a-boo.




Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words.

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