I am the twitching man in the blue polo and white shorts at the bus stop.
On the grass, I sit with my back against an ancient oak sweating in the shade.
The bus is late. How long can I count the fluff parachuting over the treetops?
Escaping from a Straitjacket While Hanging from a Balancing Rope Suspended 150 feet Above Ground
Our story was written in invisible ink. You have disappeared into nothing I can smell
No longer will I wander among your valleys and mountain or scale the snowy summits
Now I only dream of innumerable ashes drifting, spreading on the sheerest waves. Now
In the City of Literature, autumn roars. A chilling wind sways the balancing rope.
Mario Duarte lives in Iowa City, Iowa, and is an alumnus of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. He has poems in the Acentos Review, Palabra, Passages North, Slab, Steel Toe Review, and Yellow Medicine Review, among others; and a short story in Oddville Press, with another forthcoming in Huizache. contact
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