HIGH PLAINS
(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
(easily 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.
As if on the brink: still, moon-white.
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