For Nina, Riding Beside in the BuickDillon J. Welch
There are some nights like most
nights I sit outside and feel lousy or
quiet and musty like an old oven mitt.
I tried leaning in the hardly empty hall
closet like an unrustled broom. I tried
standing beside a giant field and feeling
comically small in comparison. Apropos,
did you carry yourself like a kept stack
of wet wood to the doctor’s public office?
I know—I won’t mention the coppice stairwell
to the bike trail, how Simon tumbled down it
like a box of careful feathers. Hold calm if not
accountable when we cross paths next.
Shelter that tragic grin, that meridian pull
of top from bottom lip. Nina,
you’ve always carried such dominant
hairstyles. Such marvelous October skin.
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