Mini Anthology of Sequence Poems


Not the moth-worn clouds moving left, back-lit by some moon, but lightning the more companionable light giving edge to the deckled hills, to a narrow road just wet, with luminous yellow borders less boundary than tease. Go ahead for the hell of it off the side, windows down, nose down to the unlucky cushion of oak and pine.

I'm tired. I imagine I'm going home.

The morning surrenders, finally, its storm. Across the road a man hammers the door back in place and calls for his wife. They've lived here long enough to know what a house can take. Now there's everything to learn from frantic birds caught like debris in the top branches, from a porchlight left on. How the rain slaps pavement like children's feet running here, running back.

— Sharon Klander

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