Poetry and Poetics
That July day the near
we walked 78th past Cedar and Laurel
and watched the Whittlesey house burn.
One year snow fell taller than I was,
burying every bush: a squeaky white,
a cold, unfillable quiet.
Hills there rolled up on one another.
The ambulance saved the woman bleeding.
Once snagged, the kite never came down.
Leaves underfoot, leaves overhead,
and milk quartz wavery in the creek.
What oiled rock road ever met a knee
it couldn't love? Run fast enough,
a bee hive can be thrown like a football.
Place is time.
© by Lex Runciman
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