← v14n1, Spring 2015Poetry · Volume 14, Number 1
Nine Miles outside Comfort, Texas
Not cold enough yet
for snow, but nearly numb
fingers by the time I finish
pumping the cheapest gas,
wishing I felt more
when you touched me.
Wet trees & idling trucks,
a whole shelf of expired
where you pay a hook to drop
grasping for the tail of some
bright half-buried animal.
We keep trying
but I’ve never seen
someone leave this county
with anything softer
than ash in their arms.
