chelsea balzer

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bro

what do you do with your longing?

do you even know it?

do you even look at the tomatoes and cry?

 

remember me like this:

squatting
to piss,
all
paper-bag colored
from our
grabs at early

summer,
wearing your
old work shirt
next to the
misconstrued creek
I used to pick
mulberries behind
when I
thought that just
stomping on things
made them
wine,
beside the
govern
ment-
sponsored fields
of endless

corn and soy,
still self-made
and mysterious
to me,
staring at the

birds we only now
notice, black with
bright

orange
shoulder pads,
warning each

other of the in-

coming storm that we
risk letting

soak us,

downhill from the
bench you discovered

years before
sharing,
the one that you

like because it’s
easy to miss,
which holds

still at the center of

loose gravel roads,
bike paths,

concrete high-

ways like tangents all

huddling near the

small bits of

wild that

survive through the

not-really-looking
of cars going by
as I’m

crouching,
bare-assed &
surviving this

way too,

close to the

earth so that
just you

can
see
me.

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