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Smaller Devices

Because my heart could not

contain you, it refused sympathy,

succor, news from anywhere.

Now it’s as if a machine

records the feelings

I might have had.

Flashes like alarms

alert me, they’re on file

should I wish to review them.

I don’t. One was many

and became one again.

It was you I meant to belong to.

These bowing rituals never end.

All through me, seasons passing.

The late season grasses.

Lately, the grasses.

from Little StrangerFind it in the library

Copyright © 2013 Lisa Olstein
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.

Published in Lisa Olstein Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.