A negative seals interiors together. This world sees. Once adept with symbols, a narrator reinvents a city of white donkeys because a boy from Ohio went missing. He has not yet lost his leg. Perhaps they were friends. One on an opposite coast hints at a beginning. You take it for what it is. There is no sun left in me. He seems poorer now than when you knew him. Old scenes were repetitive. You learned to love that way.
This is not quite an address. You want to tell girls with a dark turn of mind about light. You want to tell those with bright morning eyes about dark. Each divides her time into what once was known of fruit, rests, remainders.
Laura Carter is a poet and teacher living in Atlanta, GA, where she completed her MFA in 2007. She has since published several chapbooks, and numerous poems and book reviews. She enjoys hiking and has a cat named Zoe.