Jason Stratton





No one pushed but you.
You’ve seen the golden city like
a fire in the jungle. Smoke, the fever—
The mirror lake, wild, rocking

with the weight of a massive
sky, white with hovering.
You brush your hair away
and you quickly wipe the table

clean. Cards thrown down,
your hands, split and spread,
flies near, no sound from
their bloodless wings—a burst

above the company. All the men
look up and shout at water
coming down. You cannot see the lake,
your eyes gone cotton; you have faith.


Copyright © 2004 Jason Stratton.  All Rights Reserved.


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