Fort
Sometimes there was nowhere else to put the snow,
so they'd plow up huge piles in people's yards,
a reminder that everyone had some kind of trouble
Everyone was somewhat pure.
Forgiveness then was a lot like the sun, so also the color
of piss in a sidewalk drift. You walked around it.
You never knew what was coming.
Or you do.
Morning, this time through the windshield of a truck,
and he's talking, his neck a cliff of light, about the weight
of wet hay, which is like snow, like trying to breathe
in the carved spaces of something new.
From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 186, no. 3, June 2005. Used with permission.
so they'd plow up huge piles in people's yards,
a reminder that everyone had some kind of trouble
Everyone was somewhat pure.
Forgiveness then was a lot like the sun, so also the color
of piss in a sidewalk drift. You walked around it.
You never knew what was coming.
Or you do.
Morning, this time through the windshield of a truck,
and he's talking, his neck a cliff of light, about the weight
of wet hay, which is like snow, like trying to breathe
in the carved spaces of something new.
From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 186, no. 3, June 2005. Used with permission.
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