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Kurt Brown

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by this poet


The new road runs along the old road. I can see it
still imprinted on the earth, not twenty feet away
as I drive west past silos and farmsteads, fruit stands and hogs.

A man spends his whole life fishing in himself 
for something grand. It's like some lost lunker, big enough 
to break all records. But he's only heard rumors, myths, 
vague promises of wonder. He's only felt the shadow 
of something enormous darken his life. Or has he? 
Maybe it's the shadow of other fish,