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Jack Christian



and the experience of the Loop snail

where the waterfall was what a surprise

and the road we wanted was the road we were on

by a different name so we made it

where the fire pit and the fire the stars and both of us

and our amazement and the branch we didn’t burn

the pieces of yard art in the wild manicured lawn

the kindling the string of lights

and what we carved

and the child from whom we hid the chocolate

the shorted porch light and the stones

where we stooped and dozed

how we’d be with the split logs in wait

the beer undrunk the low-percentage chance of rain





In Deltona, the crepe myrtle are responsible

for many deaths. They grow up in medians

and inspire tourists to death.

They’re cut down. They grow back. Their resilience

is a harbinger.

Such is the fate of kayakers in caravan.

Their streams run full. Their sky is a death pallet.

Their trails have been hiked into submission.

Sand blows across Interstate-4 and in it

they read their deaths. An armadillo meets a tractor-trailer

whose payload is death. A citrus farmer tends a fruit-stand

to pay off death.

Between subdivisions, when the alligators

have nothing to chomp, they sun-up on logs

and ruminate.

A traffic light turns death-colored.

A resort serves only appetizers

because the kitchen is plagued by Mexico.

The water supply is death-infected.

When will Osceola County outlaw death?

A panhandle horse-person met a sinkhole

then with death.

In the days death was a petting-zoo

visited by low-worth children.

A local sporting facility branded

with the green bank’s trademark.

The embattled councilman said wetland zoning

was a discussion he’d have any day.

He said he’d welcome the debate.

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