Winter 2011 • Vol. XXXIII No. 1 Poetry |

The Yes

Each day, for years, it gets up at first light, lets the dove out and stands in the doorway looking at the soft blue Arkansas sky without waking. But never you mind, it will be packing its small suitcase soon; it will leave the keys dangling from the lock and set out at last. Across the raven's brook and barefoot through the pathless wood of books, already it is traveling toward me, somehow I know this. Though blinded as I leave the outer brilliance. Though the stench of urine hit me like a blow and once more, in the blink of an eye, I am back at my watch, pretty mauled by a vicious cycle, right in the middle of raising a twenty-pound shot glass toward the general vicinity of my lips the way a ruined jeweler might gradually guide, from long habit, the loupe to a an empty eye socket. But the suicides you always have with you. Maybe I'm just cruising around late at night. And waiting at what is already the longest red light in Western history, no other car in sight, never will be, not

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By Franz Wright

Each day, for years, it gets up at first light, lets the dove out and stands in the doorway looking at the soft blue Arkansas sky without waking. But never […]

The Window

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Each day, for years, it gets up at first light, lets the dove out and stands in the doorway looking at the soft blue Arkansas sky without waking. But never […]

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