the grass and sand.
A guitarist sits
nearby, playing
the same
tidbit over and over,
as if it
will always
be this way,
a dream
you lose the moment
you start
to describe it.
Clink
The engines sputtered and we
migrated to park benches. The mayor forced the public
library into a
strip mall. It’s closed on weekends,
even though I wrote all those
letters the newspaper never printed.
My church smelled like sandalwood
after moving from the junior high gymnasium. Candy-gothic walls and
pews and kneelers—
the lake bobbing, timid. Sunlight squints off the
waves.
Not enough people live here for traffic jams. Drive ten miles
any direction you’re swallowed by corn.
This breeze comes from the
moon and stutters by the time it reaches
Pennsylvania. No clove-and- banana flavored beer in these parts. In honeycomb corner bars
with names
like The Saucery, sanctus bells clink, as if to signal something is about
to happen.
