Sean Hill

Yet in Bemidji

 

And for her I translate

my tongue to theirs—

I shouldn’t have another drink;

I have to drive home yet.

 

But it’s light out yet.

 

That yet at the end,

a lingering way of saying still,

gets me on the line

like fish being pulled

from under the ice.

 

Vivid as cells splitting,

expanding

from everything, or a blush

scuttling

across her cheek, the stillness

of winter seeps in

like the diction and syntax

of the locals, holding off

what is to come and what

persists.

 

And on the way home, red—

a fox in the headlights’

sidelong shine,

head down, hunting

or in supplication.

 

The yetness of winter, the

stillness of winter

The silent time and yet

 

Somniloquent

Visiting the Carriage House

Sean Hill: Bio

 

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