Country Music
an online journal of poetry
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Leora Fridman



THE SKY IS NOT A DARK

  

cable you can crawl to yourself on.
It is not called home. When you don’t return there

you will come to see that you can rely solely on
the drums of fruit you’ve been fermenting with

little expertise, hoping that once they get smelly
you will know more about how to make wine.

Once they have flavor more children of man
will take interest in food made from fallen trees.

This is no world you have, yet. Inside the tonal shifts
of popular movies there is little surprise, but you

and your friends gather because you want it
this way, you want one site where you can all

drive quietly toward what is everyone’s happy.
This basin you are calling blue is not what

I would call stillness, but it is absolutely faithful
to itself. When you stretch out this much netting

no more fish will come jumping from the shadows
you cast on the surface, but you and your fragmented

army can droop and rely on tensile strength.
No necking will find you this low to the earth.

By the way you held the center I assumed
you knew the locale had sunk. By the way

you delivered your strain to the structure, I thought
more rivers would drain to this spot.

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