This poem is taken from Stand 215, 15(3) October - November 2017.

Miles Waggener Two Poems
Bluestem presses against the orbital sockets
of our Pontiac, here where you remain open-minded, elegant,  

frank in the ether-haven  
of what’s left, where things are  

done the right way the  
first time, where broods of nursing bats  

sound panicky beneath  

the eaves of your dreaming eyes, where dusk’s sinuous  
jet path body  

can be a whip  
and what the whip means licks the ‘ataway,

where the yonder you watch  
turns purple  

from our vista on the pedestrian bilge, its lost waterway  

now husky corn stubble, a seed vault  
or black box  

on replay or a perfectly good car battery in the snow,    
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