Monthly Archives: August 2009

Would Be Roadkill

Either these falls are shrinking or this river’s high. Traffic stops  for you when you no longer trust. You’re walking across blind spots, a stone embankment and swerve  to tease the dead. You have predicted you would join those left-handed … Continue reading

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Leaving Hoosierland

A moving walkway is coming to an end, begin here where passing through is an industry. Will I speak to strangers, you ask no one. I will not use horizontal escalators to get what I want, you state plainly—rural routes … Continue reading

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Gardening at Night Cinquain

A clue you are digging your own grave in the dark— this dirt under your fingernails exposed.

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Carp Queen

I am her royal highness perched low on the Minnesota River’s north bank. A beer cooler  my throne, a grain elevator screeching over the mucky muck water cheers me on. My fishermen  hook big flapping bottom feeders, then hand me … Continue reading

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Before Swimming Season

For MJ  A duck nest beside an unpumped pool, debris-laden, a feathered inn.  A feline banquet surrounds the swill, the outdoor plumber’s late again.  An expansive tarp buckles in the mix, ducklings gone from view, a child slips. Three sisters … Continue reading

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Metamorphosis in Two Spheres

A dime in the street becomes two touching a flatness tires can’t roll away. Infinity sleeps outside  before summer solstice in the rain. With morning, it rises  to become a figure eight on air—hold the ice. Keep going, dare ascendance … Continue reading

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Vinyl

Realizing with relief she can’t hug a voice, she is safe from self-harm.

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Heights (Day 2,304)

 And I know I will  die. It could be now. How will I lift this foot? And I don’t, and I do.  Stairs to an elevated pedestrian bridge over nine lanes of highway. The linking flight  between two floors within … Continue reading

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Washington Avenue South

Before the street made sense, became a boulevard with flower beds and urban strength trees, she entered  the roadhouse to seep into wood. To be the end. It is  gone. She is not. Up the long block—a lengthening stretch of … Continue reading

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Mount

Glass poems collect dust in a case that used to hold taxidermy fodder.  It could be her head (not the stuffed bird’s) this time that flies off—this night could be the one  she witnesses outside first before locking herself back … Continue reading

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