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William Doreski
Living North of North
The blunt façade of a house
built near the Arctic Circle.
One window, a large bowl
on the shelf, kitchen utensils
thrust into a smaller jar.
A shade angled across the dark
interior. Someone yanked hard
and skewed the flimsy paper.
An electric meter glowers
on a stalk of metal conduit.
Who reads the meters here?
The cold of the harbor, a faint
shade of gray, distorts everything
indoors or outdoors. The nailheads
tattooed on the plywood siding
look tougher than acne scars.
Who admits to living here?
Stones creak and creep from the water
and lie down in the yard to sleep.
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