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Erika Howsare

Blue street, bell-decked
Clydesdales, quarter to ten and daylight
wan through the rain.

Blue street where M did her laundry.

Crept up today and over the pass
and again in reverse—back on my traces,
                         done what I could—

Forgetting most of what we see,
we're all falling now, falling east,

down the dark flank of the solstice.
Ten is at night.

                If I can make myself mine this—

mine, how I—

One final cup before the road, crept up
today, the whole building empty except
for clocks that showed the wrong time
and a package of Q-tips.
                                    M, why did you?

Forget the horses
and tourists, this is my last night here,
I'm clean, I've done what I could.

             M for I.

The river turns 90 degrees
in its stern walled channel. Quarter to ten.

How I must have seemed
to her on the twentieth floor—
a pittance, a child's idea of travel.

        Going-to-the-Sun is the name of the road.

Erika Howsare

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