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The letters on the neon sign go out, one a year, or are not repaired

ISSUE:  Summer 2018

    shortened are the number of times 
I will speak to my father alive
 the days I can just goof off and no one cares 

are likewise declining
             like the wild population of the rhinoceros
    nosing gigantically the waterhole mud

     the year a third done already 
      at the trash pile an enormous
 photograph of Mount Rainier shaped like a trash pile
    from the mountaintop at night you can 
see clusters of light that are the towns
where as in the clusters of light above, 
grave calculations are performed
      like my cousin the sheriff or my cousin the felon

   I usually only see the sun at the usual great 
distance but this light on my parking ticket is no less 
part of the sun than its impersonal flares
   I give a quick goodbye like shaking water off my hands
Robert Creeley! There are fewer and fewer Roberts Creeley.
 There are fewer / fewer excellent things to remember.
  fewer people buzz me in through secret doors.

   The moon hangs over the garage
            reminding me that I will or will not live forever
         gently appointed with a rude corsage
             fulcrum of the sun-and-moon-balanced lever

     and if the sun travels on the descending-airplane’s wing
  then also some tongue-red camellias 
just now bloom
         but already some have fallen into the grass’s ring
   same sunlight plane and flower both perfume

   this yard where I vomit after having hauled
         from the basement, soaked in rat piss and shit and death,
   layers of insulation inexpertly installed,
 fiber and virus entering every breath,

   yard also of the annual Derby party when Mary Park
    lived here and I drank julep
 from cold sweating pewter



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