|The 2River View||24.1 (Fall 2019)|
As if the runnel is a river
As if the runnel is a river, and the wedding dress a baby sent on a reed-woven carriage, the dress drapes over the storm grate. Bird lifts its fabric, the yellowish lace flapping as water gurgles into the opening. She leers up at me. This is where she will nest: the sun half-clotted by clouds.
The way you feel—a tooth sensitive to saliva.
Sitting on a hill overlooking Tuscaloosa
Sitting on a hill overlooking Tuscaloosa, the view we hoped for—what, exactly?—turns out to be streetlights in a dirty string over the valley. As if someone, too lazy, like me, to take down the Christmas lights, stumbled outside, post-storm, a June morning, and saw the lights strewn on the grass, still lit, though most of the bulbs busted, and didn’t bother, because of how their light is subject to the sun’s light, picking them up.
Smashed bits of glass, the trials of an afternoon—
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