the munitions factory,
the postcard city.
contain regret
within definite prosperity
when compared
to grace appreciated less.
the nostalgia aware
of different dying
without even names
settled in connection.
what is necessary
these forms not become today
in age ideal. the same yesterday
corresponds to the medusa
reserved for a map. your empire
must be big, not equally real.
what is necessary is imagined.
existence
the route wonders
in a different order.
the eye penetrates
the scrawl of gardens,
the prison, the slum.
the hypothesis
of the traveler
has nothing but doubts.
he is distinct
in existence.
Michael Prihoda is a poet, editor, and teacher, living in central Indiana with his wife and the dream of having a pet llama. He is the author of five poetry collections, the latest of which is The First Breath You Take After You Give Up (Weasel Press, 2016).
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