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Friday Night Hour

Is it spectacle I’m avoiding

in a logic of surrogacy,

pharmakon gauntlet trees,

corrosive golds, birds in flexed design,

lifting, standing in for an evening

gathered with couples

or taking in a film? Bite me,

charred gusts, as I, solo,

open a window to light’s shank,

to Venus, lone & salt-stung earring.

The etched in wretched. Sure.

Inward hardly mean no drama.

But it’s a different kind of transit:

day’s demise that shows us we’re alive.

from OrexiaFind it in the library

Copyright © Persea Books 2017
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.

Published in Lisa Russ Spaar 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.

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