Poetry
March on the St. Lawrence
All night the ice cutter and a wandering ship / dispersed local terrazzo marble like bachelors at a stag
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The Tunnel
it almost seems they’ll call me / back onto the field
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The Friend’s Dog
we think she has, until she yawns once, / gives an almost whistled sigh
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You Don’t Know
You don’t know. You never have gone anywhere, / they said. You have no travels.
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