FALL/ WINTER 2009

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Steve Schmidt
WE STOP AT A CAFE ALONG THE COAST

Zipper over my will, you pinch, pull
coyly, side-to-side, tooth by tooth
--steady, constant, slow reveal.

Each face gawks drily,
implies I know but few
of life's true faces.
Raised by sober parents
--chamber of commerce--
learning video games in a gay bar,

I know which drink
would embitter
my stomach.

I forgot whether
you channel smoke,
fire, or alarm.

I know you're too smart
to speed past hounds
in outlaw flight.

I pivot
slower than a tilted top,
faster than the Zodiac

toward you and away
until I repel you by drilling
out wonder between streets:

illusion hard as
gravel feels loud,
quite soused.

Most agree with you,
look away from it
to my forehead.

Won't they see
as they consign drunks to Bacchus,
that I, pledged to the blue and thunderous
before my first word,
have a destiny of sky?

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