Far north Illinois
turned fields,
shelters
grinning on the
old weather,
corner
carved from War of 1812 borders,
jurisdictions dreamt
after
the paint factory shuttered
and all that freight bundled up
like bees without a queen.
And
you
strained
tumbled shatterings
from briefest shores,
wishing for Michigan,
or better yet Winnipeg,
or better still the world
that has not yet learned
to suffer you as phantom limb.
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