Monthly Archives: April 2016

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Grid

Grid of a city

Sitting off-orange

Like a specter

Half quiet

And dark

Traffic a trickle,

Its older brother

Arkansas running

Fast and high

With spring tears

In vein

 

Mother’s bosom

Hidden by building,

Broken people,

Hardened history,

And asphalt

It’s all night

All day

For her

 

Sacred directions

Define sides of

Cross-hatched

Economy,

Of compartmented

Bodies

North with its

Dusk tint,

East with its

Fire,

West with its

Empty,

South bathed

In sickly green

 

Few places to pray

In the grid

So many holes

To crawl into

 

Rarely a shining

Point in the glow

Overhead

Just that sultry

Haze hanging round

Like feet on the corner

No place to go

 

Days, stunningly

Short

Sundown chimes

Its long din,

Thrumming chords

Of street stick

To rib of home,

To roof of yawning

Mouth,

Hard to hear

When you’re in it

 

View a shock

From the highway,

When all’s distant,

The glow tangible,

Contained,

You can feel

The dirt-light tune

Rumble out

While you close

In

Wheel wanting reverse

Engine catching fire

With drive to hit home

 

Tulsa’s song is low;

A slow ballad of botched

Kindnesses,

Warm evils,

And tired, hollowed

Voices

 

Copyright 2016

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare

 

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