Three Poems


Another coast must parallel this one, of this I am sure: the land rises,
bowl of sky. The other shore, proof that I am alone. My back tight
against a tree, I look to the field, the metal hull, the possession of
them terrifying—that newness will continue from this plain. This
turned-over boat: cargo carried, then shielded, then borne away. I am
no longer able to parse my speech: what I have done, what others
have already—study and seizure, say.

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