Out on the Balcony
near the bushes. An odd bliss that looks like litter.
we'll both leave in the morning. It's an old
and girls on every arm of it. And I don't believe
but hanging at the noose end of things.
there's nothing left but a sister in Jersey.
of warmth tonight as he coughs and lights
like a sigh as coatless blondes go by
and promising as if its July's stars out there
You know when there's something wrong.
like a storm dripping from the eaves.
And you searched until you found something
beneath that chair after meeting a bobcat
with one ear. And you carried her for weeks
into stealth. Because all along the vet said, sure,
into those woods after leaving
Brent Pallas has been in New England Review, Poetry, and The Southern Review. In 2007 and 2011, he was a finalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry given by Nimrod International Journal. contact
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