Amy Miller

Ten

Past the yard with the rusty pool, past the woods with

the bootworn paths, through the triangle of tree farm,

you are waiting in a car.

 

Let me tell you where I am: past the common, past

the park that smelled of high-heeled roses, through

the deserted turnpike booth.

 

I still know your house, ten houses from mine, its

stairs to the light of your bedroom, its stairs to the

bottle-dark basement, your daily walk from yours to

mine now only in my imagining like the dreams of

drivers flashing headlights on the pond while we sat

on the dam and tried to speak of what would come.

 

 

 

 

 

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ISSUE 91
Imaginary
Numbers

 

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