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Of Travel

                                    F. Daniel Rzicznek


A public storm coming together
in a brain under fluorescent lights:

a wind primed to lift you
by the ankles and into the drink,

the rain fat and calm, steady.
It makes a monster of the river

and once I got so sick in the boat
I had to sleep on the shore,

woke staring at the red Roman numeral
one where the dog’s eyetooth

caught my left hand—

is the door into sunrise so small?


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