There was something about the entrance
that always stopped her. Iron promise. The arc
of the old welder, his tools spitting, Breath
sequestered. The day that her husband hoisted
the header of metal at the dry road's edge
and they were all prouder than when they
first moved in. She was younger then.
If she closes her eyes against the sun, it isn't blue
that seeps in but crimson of attempting to forgive
the dusty end of the earth where she lives still,
raising boys named Tanner and Hunter,
and a girl named Elizabeth after all the others,
in a modern world left wishing on them.
Yet the animals remain her friends, fresh water
in silver tanks, and an arc of invisible electricity
that transmits her wireless dreams at dusk
on the flat screen diary. Her sideboard desk littered
with unimportant papers, save for a tiny paper umbrella
of yellow, folded touchstone, bookmark for a different story
drink that she begins, writing about the city and a bridge.
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