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A Vote for Hillary is a chance to make history.

Get your Mr. First Lady Talking Doll &  help “Homesick Bill” kick Republican a$$!

A woman lies naked,
bronzed and cold—nipples taut—
thinks, “Love in the Mountains.”

No explanation reaches toward her
head, and what she calls love is
nothing or conquest that flies in

the wind. Certainly turquoise is
among flowers & royal & purple &
rust.  Eyelashes guide warrior-wings,

puffs of thunder. She sees everything
but the absent chariot & what Zeus is
swinging, way to low.

Inspired by Miki’s painting, “Love In the Mountains

Head_home

Better With Friends
for Paul

Yesterday three friends sat in folding chairs in front of their cars,
waiting for trains.

So naturally this morning, as the fog bears down once again
on the tree line at the back of the yard,

I’m seeking—in prayer—that perfect phrase,
as if memory weren’t powerful enough for the capture.

A few evergreens, rhododendron for hope,
grow on the side of a hill with the orange of the berries of the holly.

The train sounded its whistle,
while dark diesel-smoke rose, drifting above the blue Conrail,

starting where a road crosses the track and a sign says Dendron,
smoke blowing back toward the east, darkening,

for a moment, a small part of the sky. We watched the engineer wave,
as—even in January—we came prepared with blankets for our legs:

Our radios talked and cameras clicked. The train chugged up the Blue Ridge,
the mountain leaf-brown, washed-out, and winter-lovely.

first published in Southern Hum Appalachian Issue

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