Crag Hill


King of Spades

She was watching a pale blue fluid move slowly through a tube from a beaker to a retort

a fawn jumped out from the bushes and he chased her. She was running along
the river. He caught up and just jumped on top of her

Kafka was lost, too, in the hallways of the Imperial Palace,
riding elevators that didn't serve his floor, shuffling one step
ahead of sleep-walking co-eds, pockets stuffed with change

She and I sloped each other's soar,
nicked and wheezy as laughs, a mouth of nets,
yet never once meant laugh. A whole lie
had prevented itself, somewhere, for us

Our fierce hum has forsaken us.
I saw when I dove past it
how light our loves had been
to have not lifted a truce. When frost smothered her
I leaked for moons

electricity is very democratic
running close to the edge
the flow of information
mobility, perfect timing
the enemy
the only place Detroit could buy gas

I dreamed of intruders, inside and out. My muffled
shots woke my son. Something in the wind points to
fall, more than a month away, though smudged
by woodsmoke, forest fires scorching Montana. The air's
filling with seeds. His birthday letters tell a story
of one man's intense life as it collided—as it's still
colliding—with another's. There will be no survivors

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