Poem By Michael McGriff

The dreams of those buried in winter
push through the ground in summer.
Among the orders, my dead
belong to the ditches of county roads.
Before the Walkers came over
to negotiate the easement
with their version of a city lawyer,
my father hung dozens of foxgloves
above our door. A dead crow
hung by its feet from the same hook.
Even in death, that purple luster
is a kind of singing.
Dead Man's Bells. Witches' Gloves.

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Other poems of MCGRIFF

The Cow

I used to think of this creek as a river
springing from mineral caverns
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She looks at the apple trees
and imagines rows of people
standing in line for something.

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The new law
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Note Left For My Former Self

I've seen a group of farm kids
hypnotize a rabbit
by pinning it on its back


I was wrong about oblivion then,
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The World's Largest Lumber Port,
the yellow hulk of Cats winding bayfront chip yards,
betting on high-school football