Tom Jacobs © 2006 All Rights Reserved
Imagine no feet, no legs, a new road through town. Rain takes the place of shadows, of mail, and soon your hair is not the season it once was. Sycamores leave twigs on cars. Older than cities, older than hands, the fern waits in the shower. Months pool up. The fern reaches the window, yellows against it. Blurs chase each other in the yard. Children in airplanes above are dreaming but their dreams are of the plane, or sometimes the clouds. You read me endearments from the seed catalog. Little fronds rise with caps of earth.
Megan Snyder-Camp's poems have appeared in the Antioch Review, 32 Poems, Smartish Pace, and Verse Daily, among other places. She lives in LA with husband and cat.
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