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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