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Sunday, July 10, 2011

Tomato Truck Parade

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Red flesh and yellow seed.

Every elephant bears something bright and private,
touches trunk to tail to trunk to thin trail
of grayish exhaust.

San Joaquin. I have difficulty
guarding my senses
of scale and boundary.

Asleep beside me,
you missed the almond grove of eyes.

Fresno knows the contents of our cupboards
better than you or I understand ourselves
as organs and fuel.

The mountains are not mountains,
but walls of a conduit.

The highway not a highway, but a manic spine.

Movable hive cities, silver wheels
of irrigation, spurting.

One field glitters plastically,
tied with tinsel to ward off the birds
who swoop in unison like flags on a baton
moved by huge, invisible hands.








Abby Gambrel loves Milwaukee despite and because of its seasons. She teaches English and Creative Writing at Cardinal Stritch University.
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