And so
the day ended much as was,
as will,
as ever under a vast
expanse of ashengrey accents amid
otherwise little to mention; chance of snow
perhaps tomorrow. A moment to bask in the
afterglow of a list made neat
from dotted-line clippings:
milk gallon, a letter to somewhere, dry cleaner's.
Made up debts made time for
the game at seven, or
the highlights at least and an early turn in;
to Church in the morning
to shake hands and smile.
The blacktop lays at his feet like a lead apron
while the sky half-threatens.
In a parking lot dribbling out mid-market minivans
he fumbles for keys,
and shifts sole to sole.
After, he waits for the heat to kick in.

She returns from dyeing.
The greys are esconsed beneath
streaks of blonde like great granma Mimmi's,
whose long braid stayed bright to the last.
In the winter demand
for heirloom seeds wilts, but well,
she can manage and has always yet.
There's the charming location,
and that plaque for design.
Middleton Business Bureau's.
"A modernistic nod
to the lands of canals and euros;
even in November you can nearly feel the sun."
That builder with the goatee
never did return her necklace.
The one with the cross that she left on the nightstand.
Her husband had given it
on their twelth anniversary.
But Diane saw him buy it the very day of.

Barn av skogene.
Kind der Äcker.
From a car on the interstate, strict sixty-five,
the child watches with interest the passing surroundings.
The spaces in places
where there should be solidity.
Between the prim farmhomes
and generous fields,
the main streets, antique shops, chapels in white. The
three beat gap
dividing answer from question.
The moments when no one
should be looking.
It watches and learns.
Adjusts. Until
it no longer questions the distance left to cover.
It merely
holds its breath
and counts the seconds.

Amid the Midwest, they wait.

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