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Jacqueline LyonsNot a Vague Province
i. Where I am very early in the morning Waking to the quietest hum, no matter How often do you come here? Every time I do (dance, dance, dance, drink, drink) too far to walk, an hour for a cab Passing a bottle of tequila Fellow traveler Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens When I bring my friend coffee in bed One “here” another “here” where wild fennel grows along the road collecting it one startles a sleeping deer.
ii. How long do you stay? Until I leave leaves fall and stay fallen I extended my stay in one place happens exactly the same At the airport a place where nothing “Where were you?” Exiting the parking garage, $5 due, the attendant says paper wraps rock (I lived three years in an enclave) I tip the attendant a dollar and we’ll dance all night long.
iii. In middle-of-the-night open and empty aisles Alone among What time of year. Time of time a full round of counting up and down the light reds or greens place makes more time, or less, getting there and back No place without its weather A cello player in an open plaza One place became forever summer holiday miracle, anomaly allergy, slumber, single bloom a place where all this happens.
iv. How long did it take you to get here. In the house where I was small recently arriving at a different “here” a long time coming On the first day A series of stops and starts and occasional A fence down the middle makes two smaller places The sign said No Trespassing The traffic acting exactly like a charged sky Familiar squeal then a silence like something sucking up all the sound The brilliant scarlet sunset that led me outside an effect of a devastating forest fire yesterday After the crashaccident walking away everyone calling to me, saying it was too far to walk and I kept walking.
v. How did you travel. Well and by foot the body not flailing while falling I came to know a new here by walking it Forty months traveling within the same city And again a crash, a crash at the intersection Cars, on the ground, so close together in stopped traffic I look up to see in rooms I’m not daydreaming, I’m looking out the window From above, my hand large beside a mountain range In a place sometimes wronged by drought I felt right as rain on this block, no church interrupting the sun next block, instead of grass raised a little off the earth sometimes, again, a crash then nothing then, again, right as rain some things living where they fall.
Return to Volume 5.2 |
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