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Lawrence Eby

From Flight of August


27.

The first February snow

            light

                        on the eaves, our

sliding glass    door
needs               sealant
            beneath the boarded up         
the empty propane tank in the back
yard                 o−rings dryworn rot and we’ve buried

those needing to be buried, we’ve
scavenged toward Spring.
Stay up in shifts, all waking               to any lights
round the cul−

                        de−sac. This space is ours

as long as we don’t lose footing,       if we don’t
lose to this frozen sea.




29.

Banquet halls with the place−settings
still ripe, the white
            tablecloths with a coat of old

In here, son.

In here.
                          There’s a cupboard of cans.

Don’t fidget with the napkins.

 

           The boy polishes and pockets
            a fork, a spoon, the white cloth
            napkin in his shirt pocket now.

Hail beats the roof, heavy wind
tweaks the walls and for once
there’s no rush to keep
moving.

Eat.




Lawrence Eby writes from Southern California. His first book, Flight of August, won the 2013 Louise Bogen Award and is forthcoming from Trio House Press in the Spring of 2014. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Passages North, Arroyo Literary Review, The Superstition Review, as well as others. He is the founder of Orange Monkey Publishing, a small poetry press, and is Poetry Editor for Ghost Town, California State University, San Bernardino’s national literary magazine. He also volunteers time on the Inlandia Board of Publications and is a founding member of PoetrIE, a writing collective in California’s Inland Empire.




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