Brian Beatty

excerpt from "Brazil, Indiana" ( a folk poem)

The slightest rain

would flood the low road

beneath the viaduct 

 

—floating drowned rats

halfway up the doors

of our stalled cars.

 

There was no escape.

We didn’t dare roll down

our windows to free ourselves.

 

A train thundering along on the tracks

overhead would typically take the weather

and water with it if we waited just a few hours.

 

 

 

 

 

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ISSUE 90
Tiny Data

 

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contributors