January 2011

Satellite

A new poem

by Matthew Dickman
I’m sitting beneath the live
oak, wishing the plane blinking above me
was a satellite that would shoot images
of Darin back down into my brain so I could print them out
and paste them on the wall. I have to
keep looking at this one picture of him
to remember how his jaw was and on which side of the moon
he parted his hair.…

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