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John Vernon



Lid of a tin can shines in the grass. Each black stone ripped up from earth out of the winter pushes light in my eye. So much precision hurts, each leaf of each tree, each insect, each twig. I watch an ant move through the accurate grass without tou [...]

A Fly

Spring 1982 | Poetry

A fly in a room on a curtain rod, too weak to fly, been there all winter. The room isn't anyone's room, empty as an eye with one speck in it, each cell stalled in winter light. Room of the fly's weak mind where he still throws himself at the walls w [...]