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IN THE PINES

RYAN BLACK

I always knew the house was on fire. It was one of the first things I knew.

                                         Alice Notley


 

Shiver for me now—the road through

the park, the scum kettle pond,

 

the planned pine grove past Victory

Field, and the block where she

 

burned last night. March, a cracked

cellar door, don’t you lie to me.

 

Cuffed wrists. Duct tape. I am

a luckless thing. A man’s

 

rended heart. I burned like brush

fire in the pines. Burned

 

like the front porch.

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