Deborah Ager
Santa Fe In Winter
The city is closing for the night. Stores draw their blinds one by one, And it’s dark again, save for the dim Infrequent streetlight bending at the neck Like a weighted stem. Years have
Night: San Francisco
Rain drenches the patio stones. All night was spent waiting For an earthquake, and instead Water stains sand with its pink foam. Yesterday’s steps fill in with gray crabs. Baritone of a fog horn.
Alone
Over the fence, the dead settle in For a journey. Nine o’clock. You are alone for the first time Today. Boys asleep. Husband out. A beer bottle sweats in your hand, And sea lavender
Dear Deborah
They tell me that your heart Has been found in Iowa, Pumping along Interstate 35. Do you want it back? When the cold comes on This fast, it’s Iowa again- Where pollen disperses Evenly
Morning
You know how it is waking From a dream certain you can fly And that someone, long gone, returned And you are filled with longing, For a brief moment, to drive off The road
Night In Iowa
Nimbus clouds erasing stars above Lamoni. Jaundiced lights. Silos. Loose dogs. Cows Whose stench infuses the handful of homes, Whose sad voices storm the plains with longing.
The Lake
The yard half a yard, Half a lake blue as a corpse. The lake will tell things you long to hear: Get away from here. Three o’clock. Dry leaves rat-tat like maracas. Whisky-colored grass
The Space Coast
Florida An Airedale rolling through green frost, Cabbage palms pointing their accusing leaves At whom, petulant waves breaking at my feet. I ran from them. Nights, yellow lights Scoured sand. What was ever found
The Tortoise In Keystone Heights
When I knew, it was raining. Winter in decline. I was tired. You in your soaked shirt diffused Into the western sky bulging with clouds, Speeding cars a few feet away- Why would they
Summer Nights
Lamoni, Iowa The factory siren tells workers time to go home Tells them the evening has begun. When living with the tall man Whom I didn’t love, I would wander The streets, dreaming of