Shannon Ongaro: Near Emigrant

Fall '12 TOC

I land on these words:
field poet.
This is my inheritance.
            a river and a way to notice
            how air moves over a sandy beach,
            to notice and fall in love with
            the curve of a river wave
            and also to know its wrath.
I swam to the bottom of this river and stayed there longer than I liked. I scrambled for breath and waited for release.
Up on the surface, we glide
and roam from bank to bank.
Mountain tops surround
like doting aunts and uncles.
Hungry and musty we saddled up to the bar at the Old Saloon, cameras rolling. A crossword and a cup of coffee would have been perfect.
But this is not my story
or at least
not just my story.
driftwood fires
agate hunting
faces in the clouds
            all cast spells.
Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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