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High Plains


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.

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