The prob­lem with storms, they pass

Prairie Fire - - SHANNON QUINN -

I’ll be moun­tain, give up my climbers

if you don’t be death

these tears are only now.

You could be rest­ing in that web.

Eyes closed, blink­ing open, shak­ing

wa­ter from your­self, dog-like.

Droplets fly, in each a map of ran­dom god math.

Look—

we are rab­bits in a cage

never been to China.

Here—

furs wak­ing in cold stor­age

trem­bling.

Now—

Rus­sian satel­lite fir­ing up

a slash in the belly of the night.

Me—

new girl fresh barely used

bor­rowed shoes.

There—

two souls hawk­ing an in­ter­stel­lar jour­ney

promis­ing home.

You—

an out of breath Tues­day evening late Septem­ber

smell of city pool in your hair.

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