Hem, poetry by Michael K. Gause

(for William Gay)

Days lit flat and splayed, as if to under­stand a life is to log its con­tents. Take down work. Dis­sect the nights you don’t sleep. Mean­while, life hangs with death in the woods.  Tin cups of wait­ing. Long hours of drink. But go ahead. Open it all up. Take min­utes and leave them on desks come morn­ing. Walk in the sun and sleep in the bed.  For­get there are lines no one can map. The Great Divide. That mile mark­er where cities halt their sprawl. Springs that run dry at the hem of the Har­rikin.

Michael K. Gause was born in Ten­nessee and raised on for­est soli­tude and the writ­ten word. Lat­er there were explo­sions. Now, after 21 years in Min­neso­ta, he's hap­py to say he's nev­er felt more south­ern. His spo­radic blog is http://​the​day​on​fire​.blogspot​.com.

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