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A month runs down the list but checks off nothing.
No item is a good item, and if colloquialisms fall from my tongue
its fluency will remain unquestioned, itself a near-thing.

What is triumphant? What form to formulate, the bed or the sheet?
Choose on and move on, somewhere some advice
reaches a conversation. That accolade was misplaced, as most are,

and ancestry now reaches for a serious tone. As I learned
about my predecessors, concurrently did I decide to denounce them.
In 1841 would I have been looking at a podium?

The question of country relates to that of the type of wood used to build.
This tiny town makes my mind race. It is a place inviting immigration,
from bare ideas to steamboat tickets. Leaving for the ranch or at least the vineyard

means leaving so that a place can become a romance generations on.
My role is to access that storybook and dream about it. Attribution
of my taste to the hillside would be simplistic and is thus difficult to crush.

What is triumph? Difficult to cease what wishes to be quenched.
The records kept by verbacious borders entwine with water running
under the house, toward county land. If I don't stop now

I'll start recounting your photograph and diploma, gambling
on the horizon's history of encouraging risk
in the wanton manner of the younger generation.

Here I recognize my own laborious placement. Here the formica
is stained in a legible smear. Next the poem should be written back to fore
but that too claims witness, which breaks down too often when relied on.

The expulsion from paradise has acted with authority and saved me.
The nick of time is not too far off-base even if it is but a crude example
of earthly belief, confined to a small plot behind the days

of three known continents. A ticker marks off the manner in which the fourth
made itself known, sliding under land as if it were snow enclosing habit,
detailed and fairly accurate but destined to fade into the ordinary.