ISSUE: Spring 2012
(overnight, at 40 below)
The town drawn in and quiet, as the inside
Of a closet. Impenetrable, as a dream
But still the interstate slides by
The semis rising from the east,
Outlined in lights, all lighted up!
And dropping into the valley again
Goodbye: they drop
Easily as coins through a broken soda machine
(as snow-crust struck by sun: someone I loved once
opening the curtain and flushed, I remember in the mirror,
Mint-bright, fuck-stunned)
And they drop away from us, from our houses
Facing the prairie
Which we see tonight
As if on the brink: still, moon-white.
