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Poem Written Outside Firth, Nebraska

I asked the white light

for where does the black

attend and what is the matter

inside the sound of a train’s

horn? I asked the white light

to which tribe my family’s

coat belong, and how a shiver works

in the sun. Saw a toss a

dollar in for a single second of nothing

but luck. “I’ve seen you

under the streets,” she who steeped

the first fallen, billionth

leaf of Spring into Summer tea, and

grinned across that shit

house you’ll ever find yourself a-corn

-ered in. “The dark isn’t

no light, but all light,” you could hear.

And you could believe it.


Posted 01/18/17
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