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Poetry

Temple of the Falling Stars

It was summer and night in this city in the desert
and though the heat of the day had diminished
it lingered long, humid on our skin
as we lay on the grass and watched a hundred stars fall.

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The First Rough Grind

Churning through the first rough grind,
the slurry of coarse grit and violent impact
tearing sharp edges from rough stones.

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Pressed Hip to My Hip

Pressed hip to my hip on the bench seat of my granddad’s GMC pickup. It handles better in the snow. Anyway my Pinto’s busted. When I told Don about the broken shock on the Pinto, he pinned me, hand to my throat, against the kitchen cabinets, and Mom screamed his name, and I went to live with my grandparents in their creaking floor house.

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Pi to Unknown Places

Three point one four one five nine two six and
that’s as many places as I’ve ever known.

Because what’s the point of memorizing cold numbers?
However long, they will never touch you where you stand
apart from me, always in sight, just out of reach.

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Poet Reading at the Phoenix Public Market

The poet leans into the microphone, begs to be heard over the bawling blues on the scratchy speakers from the Jamaican barbecue food truck, can’t turn the music down or sales might sag. A cinnamon-skinned woman calls out the orders as the food comes out.

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The Glade

Cool air whispers
up from the river

Cottonwood leaves lit from
below by lamplight,

shimmering silver against a
storm-wracked sea of stars

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We Are Too Young To Know

We are too young to know how to do this.
I’ve read a book I found in the city library.
We have acquired the vocabulary.
We sit on the edge of your bed, fasten one another’s eyes,
say the words for what we will do.

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