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Myopia After eight they agree to a ragged, flickering montage and their face are like the strange hundred square-eyed goats that looked like they knew something, crowding and waiting and bleating in intervals. Of course they’re not really waiting on you now but perhaps you’ll make it through as in tallest grass. And how the lights of a place beneath a wingtip once seemed to be the very best possibility of the thing. This is the fount you prime and pump, the god of the gaps, the way you turn a city from the street like it’s the edge of a record but instead of crazies and whatever Isaac brock sang about the people you knew, the actors, it’s all just a bunch of fucking goats. And if you had the chance of camaraderie with anyone there in the heat did you instead find yourself reflected in those square pupils, did the black of you dance around sunshafts, thrown dangerous and wicked in long arcing seconds to anyone waiting just over there in the next bar, the next park bench, catching your glances between flips of vinyl at Logan Hardware or pulling a copy of IQ84 at that bookstore in Wicker Park where everyone looked at you like goats, too, but you didn’t look at them like anything? Catch the ratatat of the el just out there over Milwaukee and periodic. Look through the spaces at the yellow light of the windows, soft and ever and always. Speak to the path of a labyrinth. It was mine. It was. So much like you breathe a letter to you lungs, laughing down the rungs. When scent was not simply a jerk, quick to old memory. And me? Today I found myself evidenced in archived emails, a path through the entrails and all that entails. The hallways, the lost combinations, old lockers and she tasted of copper. Better the devil you wade through like water. I sang and wallpapered with sheafs of police blotter. In a clearing by a country spread, three boys stand three abreast. Uncomprehending cat, bow and arrow, cut to black.

Craig Finlay grew up a rural part of Illinois that the locals call Forgottonia. He now lives in South Bend, Indiana, where he spends most of his time being a librarian at a small university. His poems have appeared in The Beloit Poetry Journal, Five 2 One, Asimov's, Apex Magazine and The Roundup Writer's Zine. 53 | T h e B l u e M o u n t a i n R e v i e w I s s u e 7

The Blue Mountain Review: Issue 7  

Featuring poetry, prose, art, and interviews from creative intellects on the scene today.

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