The Iowa Review - - NOAH WARREN -

Late in the af­ter­noon, the live oaks crouched on the hill.

The wind falls steadily out of the moun­tains, so the grass slith­ers against the grass, the branch chafes the rest­less branch.

Above the trees, be­low the moun­tains, the hill­top has been scraped, re­placed by three lines of an­ten­nas ra­di­at­ing from a colos­sal cen­tral tele­scope. A

“wye.” I

stare up through the bowl of mesh, through its empty di­a­monds

and in one frame the green of the evening star, a frozen bud.

If I should ask my senses I would know I was barely here.

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