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Post Road Magazine #35

Three Poems

Allan Peterson

Thinking Mark I Write Mary

Something is at work without asking
I write words I did not think I intended

like an audible engine in the sea another in the air
both hidden in each other as speckles on eggs
so as not to be seen against gravel my room painted
in headlights then shadow deadheads and tugboats

It wasn’t homesick but wish you were here
which is homesick from the other side



Self Realization

The instances I itemize could be
believable as life
if they could just move fast enough
On paper they stay alive
in their stillness Then in the window
appeared a figure made of leaves
a woman and wisteria
a double exposure parts merging perfectly
and when I stood I too
entered into the very kiss I pictured



The Hidden

There are moons in me
I have seen the x-rays
I glow with that light

Until the hidden was revealed
the lush given was an ecstasy
tempered by caution like hawks
crossing water

We have limited capacity
so we say infinite and think
we have described something
our shorthand for what is
beyond us

When asked why birding
Ellen said because
they let us see them



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