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a poem by Jack Henrysnow begins to fall in Arizona
alone at a corner, hidden in graceful shadows and neon tricks-- an ethereal afterlife glow beams from Disneyland Sunday morning leftovers that tell no tales invisible rings a standard tone-- a default tone-- she lifts through Titan's chains, listens word droplets spatter to concrete an odd rain of dissonance bedroom closet, she sits-- each cut a reminder, a future memory-- slow precise movement almost without pain sit on a red couch-- comfortable, not new-- reruns of Laverne and Shirley and Happy Days-- a dog naps kicks its leg in a dream the girl is pregnant-- she is thirteen-- her parents do not know, nor will they-- her fifth period mathematics instructor knows, forever shed of playful things, lays in wait atop a thin comforter-- Room 39 Motel Six a lumpy man, older than her father would have been, pisses blood into an indifferent toilet he stumbles, nearly falls his nostril caked with snot and cocaine collapses, finally inches before the bed atop a gravestone and laughs a black crow watches snow begins to fall in Arizona |