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Michael Flory Ogletree




But what of the rest of summer?

The long nightwalks by the lake

give new purpose to the skyline,

the fickle reflection taunts the water

as if it knew all the old things I will soon say.

I would pretend & tell you I am no longer haunted

by the space between your gloves & hands.

What good would come from waiting

until morning for the next train?

I put a penny on the track for you.

You sat on the concrete floor & burned

your dance card & laughed about political impotence.

I counted all the stripes on all your sweaters.

I will only know them from their hangers.

Check the deadbolt twice, three times.

Pull a petal off at each mile marker,

toss it from the window to the highway.

Curse Orpheus, Cavafy, the stale Midwest radio.







this supplement is tired.

I kept you up past dawn,

& now we’re both fuzzy puppets.

What happened to that roadtrip?

It’s just another tooth

for you to keep tucked away.

My pillow’s filling up—

another excuse, sunshine, rain.

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