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I lived in a tree house with four dogs.
Sold drugs in Montana. What
was there then? The heat
on the grass and the smell of it,
sour chokecherries, and tiny wild
strawberries, and rhubarb
growing under the lilacs. Trains
have almost killed me three times.
Once in the winter in the frozen
fishpond you could still see flashes of gold
under the ice. Someone had forgotten
to remove the carp. Then again, I’ve
never been to Greece, Rome, Gay Purree.
My ventures have been somewhat limited.
As a child I found a red glass necklace in
the sand. I thought it was buried treasure,
but I never found out what the world was.
I love Osage oranges with their big warts
and old tin trunks with travel stickers. I
heard of an island that sank under
the weight of its tourists. Always
wondered what the real story was.
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Both regulators and employers have embraced new technologies for on-the-job monitoring, turning a blind eye to unjust working conditions.
But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.