James Crews

Bending over rows of four o’clocksnow wet with evening, he picks offdead blooms, tipping their seedsinto an envelope for next year,though he knows he won’t be here.Through the screen door, I smellcut grass, wild onion, gasoline.Under his T-shirt stained green,his skin’s already begun to yellowlike a window shade finally ruinedby too much smoke and sun.Gloaming is not the word for hownight shows up, draping the city skywhose trapped sulfur and junk-lightfight off true dark. He looks up

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