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Ruth Ellen Kocher

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by this poet

At the table in patio seating, 
a young man starched into my evening 
in waiter black and white-- 
he's probably named John, Tom, 
something less spectacular than the busboy 
named Ari at the table beside me. 
He is a boy I've seen and I hide that from him, 
a silence he doesn't understand as he turns away

typical of an arid country among hundreds of other flora

you find half a province of avalanches 

parts are desert

I might say light defeated by a dark thing that strips

mountain and bullet