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Evan Stephens
Poems
Jul 2023
The Ice House
Ghosts splash about
on the ice house wall,
beer chitters in the jar,
stories are told in fits and gnarls.
The moon is a bleached breast
in its brassiere of dappled smoke,
up above the cracked wet wire
in the driftwood garden curl.
In a slant, we all watch
a woman across the alley
in her blue dress, scanning
her hands for news of the heart.
In the near square, a thin man
is also a plume, standing shirtless
on his crystal wash of balcony.
The street sings: sea static.
All these people walk blithely by
as rain and steam take turns
on the roulette wheel.
I feel the weight of my interior,
I feel the limit of skin, the world
that ends there. I'm not sure
I belong here at the gathered table:
I'm a reflected photo negative.
Leaves spiral overhead
as the green-bedded steps
rise up in blotches to meet me.
Loaves of clouds hunt and burst.
Whatever is behind me
presses me forward;
but whatever is ahead
pushes me back.
Written by
Evan Stephens
44/M/DC
(44/M/DC)
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Carlo C Gomez
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