I hope you all had a wonderful weekend? Mine seems to have gone by in a blink and here it is Monday morning. A lot of busy work to do today, so I thought I would read a piece from Heartland II, Poets of the Midwest, Edited by Lucien Stryk. This is James L. White’s Anderson, Indiana. It all fails now: porch gliders begin as he takes the last rim shot into dusk, as moths rise in suicide against the reading lamp, as the locust cries forever, as the weathercock rusts forever, as heat lightning reveals the blue bike on rainless nights. I drink to the town's death by a granary of broken windows screaming into the night, where our last drunk Indian was run visionless to the town's edge. A drunkard from the window fan, mystery magazines and diner food, sitting in this appointed darkness by the depot where once cried the great trains extinct by my boyhood's end.
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