all the water we are made of

a pause in one of the sorghum fields
on our way out to gather seed heads
how the wind moves through the
rows that sway with it
green cane against blue sky and all that sun
filtering down

second confederate flag we’ve seen today
i say when people fly that, all i can think
is that they’re pissed the north won and
wish we still kept slaves

orange blinking sign
on highway 61
99 miles outside of st. louis reading
watch for farm vehicles
harvest season
more dead things than i’ve ever seen before
i say of the county and state highways
we travel along
and by things, i mean animals

the tears in lee’s eyes
(lee who tells me she and her 18 year old daughter
still cuddle) as i read her the poem about
the dazzle her daughter
is about to burst into
and the gleam in lee’s friend’s eyes
when i read her
the ocean poem about
all the water we are made of

way better than
getting a book published:
total strangers
leaning in
with tears in their eyes
for a hug
after i read out their
fresh-typed on my 1948 royal

and how we walk away from the moment
carrying small slices
of each other

the sensation of perching
precautiously in a chair
that i know is busted
and could give out under me
at any moment

rookie mistake i joke
as tyler and i try to decide
whether to leave the cash box
in the security-patroled botanical gardens
or to take it with


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