Eryn Green: This Slowly Stampeding

Teakettle on the stovetop, no more
boxes we thought. The white roof’s sudden razing,
the storm a hundred miles off—not bad news,
bad luck. Without notice, windows
won’t budge. Tiny far-fetched flickerings
pass like paper from a windy deck—I’ve learned to
hold a shadow in a box. By the evaporating shore,
past the river, we strain through horsehair
to see which shapes are people
and which are reeds.



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