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Evening, By Them

Adam Weg

Did I just show up in somebody else’s terms?
I guess you can tell I’ve had a to-do,
was done
going all the way back to the finish. One side was age;
the other, looks. We have a yellow light
where they’ve placed this
germane little hill, its nose in a shovel,
reading. But we are moved by its argument.
It smells new. (You can still
smell the owners.) Then stays “aware.”

Having them barely visible, then having them barely not:
the muted tones stand out in this
far-fetched part of a country, so used to a thanky directness, an accent you could steer
all over the road. But perhaps there is no
more humane way of accounting for it,
no way to reach it privately, or in common,
scarfed in this strange real estate,
characteristically new and unfinished, and seemingly
slated for demolition? I wouldn’t know. It’s only a vague
hunch that has me here at all, between our thoughts

momentarily becoming popular, and ourselves, a trail of arrows
caroling over a bend. I glimpse your face
arranged by a phrase of the song, as though to concede
to a sobriquet. Can’t I put in a good
word edgewise? I know what I’ll say.
Next time I’ll say it. You might
impress this upon your peers, or expect it
around the house—a kind of lenience or
forbearance on their parts, which are not amused.