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Regional Holiday

R. Tristan DeWitt

Dark circles occupy us
In a far city of brass and feathers.
A cold wind blows beneath a cardboard door.
Sandals flap beneath equine calves along the causeway
As thirst climbs the esophagus, rings a bell in the head.
Orange works on the lawn (as it does in heaven),
I shudder and don’t please anybody.
Dropping the tack, a tryst envelopes the daylight.
Valued movements and perpetual shock.
Lives in the deluge, modesty made for a
Small accomplishment.
In the bay, a tugboat has run aground.
“I don’t try to understand.”
Frayed tablecloth, praise the lord. Any Lord.
My mind is soil. My sister is a cop. I am a cop.
A workable sympathy—fear all but
Evaporates when it gets itself right.
“Placement of the body is extremely important.”
Sustain me, the crossed-out figure above
The solid white line.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is Swamp Day.
Today, there are no questions, just
Answers and red wine.