Too deeply sensing, spare yourself the mythology of office doors shut on solemn desks & chairs, the longing of the never-ringing telephones all multiple-lined & overprepared for business, for warm ears tender mouths. Rise on silly memories, layered of just the cold-room at the grocery. How it groans of meat, bubbles with fish, creams itself and me with witless dairy. The herbs in their baskets frond toward their remembered roots. Garage nextdoor contains clutter more interesting than our own, less poor, though poorer too. Less owned, less used. A can of spoons a vintage dress. Possibility stored. Raise the door a crack. Escape to air, the local fair. Aware every game is rigged, even the ones we win. The morning we stood there, looking up, The sky so blue--more blue than water, more blue than sky, & bluer than television.
Shanna Compton Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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