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poetry


MIDSUMMER
by
David McAleavey

Sunrise almost without color.


Later, the sun in clear sky

a knife-point:


nothing dim.


Unbending, immaculate pressure.


Whom shall I fault

if I droop?



OBSERVING DUSK
AT THE WARREN FAMILY CAMP
ON THE SHORE OF LAKE BONAPARTE,
WESTERN EDGE OF THE ADIRONDACKS
by
David McAleavey

The lone skunk

nosing her prow

from cabin to

shed, boathouse,

lodge, peaceably cleaved

a slow arcing curve

around the aspen or birch

I leaned against.

Despite the streak

between her eyes

and the impressive wake

striping her body black,

white, black, white, black,

she was hugely calm.

Not happy: aware

of her competence.

She did not spray.

I may have flinched.

Any noise I made wasnít much,

the ripple of her passing.



David McAleaveyís most recent book is HUGE HAIKU (Chax Press, 2005). His poems have appeared in Poetry, Ploughshares, and The Georgia Review, and since 2010 in dozens of journals, including Poetry Northwest, Denver Quarterly, Poet Lore, Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, diode poetry journal, Innisfree, Praxilla, Waccamaw, Epoch, Poetry East, and American Letters & Commentary. More poems are forthcoming at Stand (U.K.), and elsewhere. He teaches literature and creative writing at George Washington University in Washington, DC.



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