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James Applewhite

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by this poet


for our daughter, Lisa

As on a crowded Interstate the drivers in boredom 
      or irritation speed ahead or lag (taken with sudden
enthusiasms for seventy-five), surging ahead a little by 
                  weaving between lanes but still

staying	pretty much even, so too the seeker in language

I wake to see a cardinal in our white
          crape myrtle. My eye aches. Bees celebrate
morning come with their dynamo-hum
                    around a froth of bloom.

Though presently it’s paradise for the bees,
          noon will reach ninety-nine degrees.
Le vierge, le