sarah leaves the midwest (draft)
Never the black water rippling, or the road signs bent by wind. Not the anchors, or the underpass, or the bridges we call lapses.Seldom the difficult swimming. The canals dragged for bodies every spring. Or thetentative gravel parking lots, tires filled with paper wasps. Not the splinters in her mouth, or the spangles in her hair, blue as the inside of the virgin. Rarely what we call interruption, the neighborhood dogs in their dusty ghetto, their wilderness of bed sheets. Scarcely the stained saucers and rusted spoons, or this block, and all the houses catching fire.Never again the emptied dresses, frozen to the grass, or the cavities in her teeth, humming
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