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Scott Bade


When the rain came it wasn’t wearing any clothes
or platform shoes like those pink numbers on the girls
upstairs. Last night a doe made a midnight trip
to the backyard to feast on the crocus blossoms,

a philosophy perhaps worth noting. The blue jays
used the morning to confuse most of the others,
including me, so no stories were written today
because sunlight is a kind of blanket.

I can’t remember the cost of lunch
or its green sounds, just the pine-scented air
of northern Minnesota which translated
to motor oil and rainbows, which became

the sting of a deer fly. All of that on one coin
in the shady memory of one vacation
and still something today will get in the way
of everything tomorrow, and inevitably,

someone will pull a shade and attempt to dream
the Grande Polonaise brillante
and I’ll watch because I like to watch
the sky carry its wispy-lined stories

on cushy white chairs. As for the songs
hiding in paper or airplanes, I can
only praise legerity and the last evening—
all the memory of it comes back with toast

and plain tea. She’s gone and a rose petal held
to the sky this afternoon, in a precise position,
will cover the entire Legendre and more.

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