NEW! Poem by Jack Christian
The planned forest is no way out,
and still a little nonsense to dimple the order,
and the trail that takes us there
by a copse of cars
as if once they formed a headlight circle
and are now a rusty installation
or more simply some patterned junk
that helps predict the seasons,
the ridge above like a crooked back,
before the campsite on the creek’s little finger
with Meagan, Emma and Phil in warmest March,
as if we played a psychic role in the heat,
my own hand-me-down Buick full with wilderness gadgets.
It really was just that once—
on a rock in the river treading happily
against looming departure,
which could all be comparison to something else
but is just the memory, untimed,
the fire, the coals, and afterward—
a bit of gut pushing up through its muscle wall.
Is that a way to say it?
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