Elaine Kahn
A Poem
any cold time
underneath the lake are
ears, clouds, handwater:
the Midwest.
dirty sand sewed in like a fat drop
sloped
to Chicago
(there is no gray like your gray)
kids and wet logs, slow
resin gets grained
and watching land
gets wide and unambiguous as hips.
leaves tap
hit slap.any time
here
(we are getting to the carpet
we are getting to the story’s floor)by Elaine Kahn