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by Michel Steven Krug


The whir of a 20-speed tropical June,

Minnesota air sliced by spokes,


that gentle hiss

then those crescendos, coasting down hills


Through the hotter asphalt wind,

Where, to the right, the little league


field recently dragged, the silt

consolidated with lake scent


From across the lake drive

Where homeruns are occasionally


launched, by precocious pre-teens

who’ve learned to square the bat


On a laced ball, now all wet,

A memory never deleted,


alloys of summer and night,

childhood and change,


The pink sky powders breaths

So calm and untroubled


by electronic acrimony or

unsatisfying comparisons


Just one private blue heron

Feeding on minnows at the buggy shore.