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April 2014, vol 10, no 1

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Tony Burfield


My teacher is my wife’s press. Which of us will go first. It’s a shitty no-win. So we sit and stretch. Stretching cuss words like Susan Howe up in grey Buffalo. My bitter diet of cranberries. The gaps as big as the page. Button Rock House. We’re philistines. I walked the turkey-loop tonight without her. The gobblers, tail-feathers splayed, did their cock-tailed dance around the hens. Listen to the turtle snorgle. I’m not about to budge. It may be snowing, but my mind, right now, is sunny-side-up and I do want to be here.

leaf pieces—
worn list of goals
I had at 20