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Observe – a moon like a flashlight spilling
across the kitchen, running over a faded

checker-block floor one moment before
dawn. The livestock still dreams. A half-

awake cat, night full, curls up, indifferent
to the shades that play to an empty room.

There’s no need to look in the larder, heed
the bell, scrape boots, or clean up for eggs.

Look – that late moon rains dust. It spatters
to dead ground, downs cows, sends coyotes

here to kill the last of the laying chickens,
it sucks the last fresh wet hope from us all.

Outside, they look to the door for a sound,
some answer. The light dries to morning.

P. H. Coleman graduated a fine art BA, sold shoes and ad copy, and taught chemistry at university and high school for years. Though a PMY, he still has things to say, and has done so in obscure publications in Vermont and Missouri. He is at present safely woven into the Vermont hills with three dogs who tell him what to write.

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