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A rare poetry sighting…

November 5, 2016

By Ed Skoog, from Run the Red Lights, Copper Canyon Press


Evening is the stalk

little skulls bloom on

while canyons recede

into the garden corners.

My son asks for songs,

not stories. Song! he demands.

Or if I start a song, Story!

And we circle in this way,

solving whatever the two

hold in secret compromise

and you might think sleep

is where they escape or where

languages are whole again

like the figure that steps out

of your shadow back into

your undershirt. I don’t know 

what to look at says Monica Vitti.

But if we had a red shed

the we could get a ship in the mist,

if we had a ship in the mist,

they’d let a robot watch us sleep

if we slept, I say if we slept

I can’t sleep. I say I can’t sleep

streets laid out as they are

streets buried and buried,

not with this shop key in my waistband

yellow smoke shining above the factory

then we see each other as we are

and will not be born any further.


November milkweed

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